


The Clouded Eye

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Compliant, F/F, M/M, Manipulation, Misunderstandings, POV: Molly, POV: Sherlock, Series 4 Fix-It, series 3 fix-it, spans series 2-4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 17:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: Mary has a plan that will restore her relationship with John and bring Molly and Sherlock together at last. In an alternate storyline, Sherlock wonders how he can ever persuade John to see what he's been trying to show him for years now...





	The Clouded Eye

**The Clouded Eye**

 

She doesn’t really know when it started. The thing with Mary. Their friendship, she means, hastily self-correcting. It was before the wedding. That’s all she really remembers, that at some point before the wedding they started being friends. When, though? 

It wasn’t when they first met, after Sherlock came back and there was a little party at his flat in Baker Street. Molly met Mary then, but they hadn’t talked. She remembers that. She was there with Todd, showing him off to (at) Sherlock, and Mary was busy talking to… who? Greg, maybe? She was charming, at least from a distance, and Molly remembers having felt a bit chilled by it, put off (intimidated) by Mary’s beaming confidence, smug in her automatic acceptance into the heart of the social group, deeper in than Molly had ever got, would ever get, she thought. She’d stayed by Todd. They were still happy then, before she realised they hadn’t much in common, after all. She remembers Mary, much later, sympathetic over rosé (Molly) and sparkling water (Mary), but that was later. When had it started? 

It must have been during a case. When Sherlock and John were away. Mary must have been bored, she thinks now. And she’d thought it, too, that if she were with Sherlock, then she and Mary could have been friends, maybe. Console each other when the boys were off having fun without them. Paint their nails or go shopping or something. Molly’s never really had much luck with friends; she doesn’t know how it’s supposed to work. She’s always been a little awkward, trying too hard or not at all. It actually works better on men than on women, but not on the only man she’s ever really fallen hard for. He tends to either treat her like lab equipment or ridicule her, though so much has changed now. 

It must have been during a case. Which, though? It doesn’t matter; Molly doesn’t keep track of their cases. Apart from the death itself, she isn’t much interested in the how’s or why’s of the rest of it. Mary phoned, she remembers now. In late March. Three months before the wedding. _I’ve got the evening to myself, since John’s off chasing after a jewel thief with Sherlock or some such thing. Why don’t we meet up after work and get a tea?_ So Molly had gone, pleased by the overture. Honestly, she never felt that they had much in common. She’d never felt entirely comfortable around Mary for whatever reason. But establishing a friendship with her meant getting a toehold in that coveted inner circle, planting the seeds of the idea of the four of them as a group: Mary and John, and herself and Sherlock. Maybe John would notice at last that she and Sherlock would be perfect together, maybe he’d suggest it to his friend. There’s no one else Sherlock would ever listen to, so why not try out the idea on John? It was important. So she went and met Mary for a tea. They talked about nothing in particular. Mary asked a lot of questions about Sherlock at various intervals, just what he was like round the lab and his habits about this and that. Molly asked polite questions about the wedding. Toward the end, Mary put down her cup and said, very frankly, _I think it’s such a shame that he doesn’t see what he could have in you. You’re really perfect for him. You’d be so good for him._

Molly’s heart had lifted and dropped at the same time. So it was that obvious, then: how she felt. But Mary hadn’t laughed or ribbed her about it, and she thought they would be perfect together. Her heart had sped up, echoing in her own eardrums and she’s sure she said something stammering and idiotic, confirming, and Mary had reassured her. _Oh yes, quite perfect. Pity he’s such an idiot and can’t see it!_

That was how it had started. She didn’t see, then. There were some things that it might have been better to notice, only she hadn’t. She’d agreed with Mary, sided with her. John was terrible. Not speaking to her for all that time, and while she was pregnant, too! And yet, much later, some things became clearer. Much clearer. But by then it was too late. 

*** 

It happened once, years ago, sometime just after the whole business with The Woman, he thinks. John was angry with him over something. What? Never mind. Something meaningless, something Sherlock only saw after the fact would be irritating to John. But those days, everything seemed to irritate John, so he’d taken to going for walks to escape John’s moods, pervading the flat like a cloud of toxic gas. Usually it was John who left after one of what Mrs Hudson still called, in a masterful display of over-simplification, their ‘domestics’. Only there is nothing domestic about John Watson’s rage, and Sherlock could privately admit to himself that he hated incurring it. It seemed impossible not to, somehow. Everything he did seemed to inspire it. And instead of leaving, John would plant himself like a glowering stone statue in his chair, as though daring Sherlock to utter a single word to instigate an explosion. So he’d pull on his coat and slip out instead. John wouldn’t ask where he was going, or if he could come along. Sometimes, if Sherlock was gone long enough for his temper to settle, he’d ask where Sherlock had been, and if his tone was John-sounding again, Sherlock would say something vague. _Nowhere much. Just to the park._ Or _Just to a café_ Or _Just to the chip shop. Why? Are you hungry? Because I could still eat, if you are…_ He’d offer it like a palm branch, hoping John would take it, and by that point, usually John would. And then things would seemingly be all right again. 

He remembers the fish and chip shop in particular. Just around the corner (well, two corners) and always open, no matter what the weather was doing, it seemed like a beacon sometimes, cutting through the rain and grey mist to offer the simple, homey comfort of chips: piping hot with grease and salt, the potato melting on the tongue, crisp coating crunching between his molars, tang of malt vinegar for interest, a bright spike of flavour against the heaviness of the fat. The third time he’d gone, the vender spoke to him. Vaguely aware that it was the same person as the other times, Sherlock registered him properly for the first time: young, late twenties, dark hair, stocky without being bulky, shadow of stubble staining his cheeks. Good-looking. Wearing a cable-knit jumper and jeans, sensible clothing given the weather and the open door of the shop. 

“The missus kicked you out again?” he’d asked with a chuckle, scooping impossibly more chips onto an inadequate-seeming cardboard holder. 

Sherlock had shaken his head. “No.” 

The vender had eyed him appraisingly. “Live alone, do you?” 

Another denial. “No. I’ve a flatmate. John.” Why had he said his name then? Was it some sort of desire, even then, to be known for who he really was? He does not know. 

That got a jag of brows under the peak of the newsboy cap. “Is that how it is, then.” The appraising look deepened. “Look,” the vender offered. “I don’t know what the trouble is, but I’m sure it’ll pass.” 

Sherlock had stopped dousing the chips with vinegar and looked up with a scowl. “Who said there was trouble?” 

“Your eyes did, mate,” the vender said. “Heart’s right there on your sleeve, if you want to know. Whatever you did, just apologise. He’ll come round, see if he doesn’t.” There was a smile then, a surprising brightening of the vender’s features, inspiring Sherlock’s mental reappraisal as _decidedly attractive_. 

He’d stumbled, words tangling on his tongue. “No – he’s not – it’s not like that,” he’d fumbled, inwardly cursing his awkwardness and wondering why he was talking about it at all. Was he really that desperate for company in light of John’s simmering wrath? “We’re just – friends. I think.” The latter tacked on, meant _at least I think we’re still friends_ but he heard belatedly how it sounded. Even he could hear that. It didn’t matter; explaining it wouldn’t clarify anything or help, anyway. His scowl had deepened. 

“I’m Chris,” the vender offered. 

Sherlock had made a vague motion with his shoulders, half-irritation and half-concession. “Sherlock.” He’d said it grudgingly. 

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Chris said, easily enough. “Enjoy your chips.” 

Sherlock looked up then, their eyes meeting briefly. “Thank you,” he’d said stiffly, and shouldered his way out the door and into the rain. 

*** 

The next time he’d gone, it was three weeks later. That time, at least, he knew why John was angry with him, but he still hadn’t thought of that until after the fact. Mrs Hudson had scolded him, too, after she’d seen the state of the kitchen floor. It wasn’t raining, just cold, cold enough that he could see his breath. Sherlock stayed and ate inside the shop, twining his long legs around the bar stool at the lone counter. There were no tables; most people took their food away with them. 

“Kicked you out again, has he?” the vendor inquired, wiping down the counter. 

Sherlock shook his head but didn’t say anything, the chips turning grainy and flavourless in his mouth. He’d struggled to go on chewing and swallowing and trying not to think of John. He’d directed his focus to choosing another chip and ate that without tasting it, either. 

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” Chris said, but went on in a philosophical tone. “Sometimes people find it helpful to talk through it, you know?” 

Sherlock shrugged, not certain how to respond to this. Finally he said, “There’s nothing to talk about. There’s – it’s not – what you think.” 

This got him a quick flash of dark eyes. “How do you know what I think?” 

It was a challenge. Sherlock looked over, felt himself re-evaluating. Fine, then. “All right, then what do you think?” he asked. 

Chris studied him. “I’d say that you’re in love with him, at any rate. Whether or not it’s mutual – that, I don’t know. There are definitely feelings on your side, though, and things haven’t been going all that well lately. I don’t know. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend. Maybe he’s got a boyfriend. Maybe he’s just not into you. Or maybe you’re together but you’ve been fighting and you don’t know what to do about it.” He’d shrugged modestly. “I don’t know, me making deductions in front of London’s greatest detective, but you can tell me how far off I got it, if you like. Was I close?” 

Sherlock acknowledged this stiffly. “Yes,” he said, looking back down into his carton of chips. They’re growing cold. _Too close_. He didn’t specify any further, and Chris didn’t ask. 

Surprisingly, he’d backed down then, going on with his cleaning and leaving Sherlock to his chips. When Sherlock got up to deal with the detritus of his snack, Chris leaned over the counter and said, “Good luck. I mean that. I hope it gets better.” 

Sherlock offered him half a smile and left without a word, the cold night waiting to reclaim him. 

*** 

The next time he went, it happened. He’d got a text from John saying something vague about a date and couldn’t even think why it was so upsetting. He hadn’t even fully acknowledged to himself that it was, but when the text came, he realised he’d been waiting for John to come home and the sudden disappointment of knowing that he wasn’t coming, and why, felt like cold water down his back. He didn’t remember putting his coat on, coming to himself only once he was on the pavement, hands pushed into the pockets of his coat. It was almost spring, but a raw, cold, March-type rain was falling, miserably damp and grey. 

He didn’t realise that the fish and chip shop was closing until he stepped inside. “Oh,” he said, as Chris looked up in surprise. He looked round for a clock, saw that it was already midnight. “I didn’t realise how late it was. I’ll – ” He was already moving backward toward the door, feeling foolish. 

“Sherlock! Wait!” Chris called out. When Sherlock stopped and turned back, Chris said, “Don’t go. I just closed, but I wouldn’t toss you out, you know. Especially not on a night like this. What would you like?” 

Sherlock hesitated. “You’ve already turned everything off,” he pointed out. 

Chris smiled. “Things turned off can always been turned on again,” he said. The lines around his eyes crinkled, giving off a sensation of warmth and Sherlock thought briefly again about how that smile transformed his otherwise serious features. As Sherlock continued to hesitate, Chris went on. “Come on, then: have a seat. The usual, is it? Medium chips?” 

Sherlock gave way then and sat down on one of the stools. “You’ll give me extra like always, though,” he countered. “We might as well call it a large.” 

That smile again, half-hidden as Chris switched on the fryers and made for the fridge. “Or we could just call it a generous medium.” He bustled about, getting things ready. “It’s a rotten night out there. Should have known you’d turn up tonight. You always come when the weather is the worst.” 

Sherlock considered this. “Perhaps those are simply the nights most suited to chips,” he suggested, and Chris laughed. Sherlock attempted to shut out thoughts of John on his date as he watched Chris make the chips, serving them with a flourish and then sitting down on his side of the counter across from him, dropping a bottle of dark malt vinegar between them. 

“Bon appétit,” he said, and Sherlock bowed his head in brief thanks. 

“It was good of you to stay open for me,” he said, the words a bit awkward on his tongue. He picked up a chip and ate it, exhaling steam from the too-hot potato. 

Chris watched him, an unreadable look on his face. “I couldn’t turn you down, mate. Not when I know you only come here when you’re upset about something.”

That stung almost as much as the pain of the chip burning his tongue, though Sherlock knew he hadn’t meant it as a barb. “Well, it was kind of you,” he said woodenly. 

“Tell you what,” Chris said, lowering his voice a little and reaching across to steal a chip. “If you want to thank me sometime, you could always come up to the flat and… help me put up some shelves, if you catch my drift.” 

Sherlock frowned a little. “If I catch your drift…” he repeated. He did not know why this should be framed as a euphemism. “You need help with some shelves?” 

This got him half a grin, almost hidden. “Oh yeah,” Chris said. “I’m not great with that sort of thing, you know?” 

Sherlock’s frown deepened as he stared at Chris and tried not to notice that his five o’clock shadow of stubble was even deeper at this time of the night. “How hard could it be?” he asked. He’s helped John put shelves up before. One only need measure, make sure they’re level. It’s hardly rocket science. 

“It can get pretty hard,” Chris said, almost smirking now. “I could really use a hand.” 

Sherlock found himself still frowning. He blinked, then nodded. “All right. I could help you with that.” 

“Tonight?” Chris asked, an eyebrow rising. He was leaning forward on both elbows, and snuck another chip. 

John likely wouldn’t be home until the morning. Sherlock took another chip himself. They were finally the perfect temperature. “Yes, all right. Why not. And help yourself, by the way. You gave me far too many, as usual.” 

Chris smiled at this and didn’t deny it, and they ate the rest of the chips together in a silence that suddenly felt almost too easy, too warm. But the contrast to the cold rain, to John’s absence, was palpable, and Sherlock felt himself relaxing into it, unable to prevent himself from taking this most basic of comforts and letting himself have it. When the chips were gone, Chris switched everything off again and nodded toward a door that led up to the flat above the shop. “This way,” he said, so Sherlock got up and followed him. 

He’d never thought of himself as having been impossibly naïve. Later, after the fact, it all seemed entirely clear. The signs leading to it, the hints that he should have picked up on, were all there. Nevertheless, it came as a complete surprise at the time when he said, “So where are these sh – ” only to have the word cut off with Chris’s mouth on his own. The sheer shock of it had prevented him from speaking for a moment: first the shock of finding himself being kissed in the first place, then the secondary shock of the warmth of Chris’ mouth, of the extraordinarily pleasant sensation of being kissed washing through him. It only lasted for three to four seconds, and then Sherlock was blinking in the darkened entranceway of the flat. “Oh,” he said stupidly. Blankly. 

There was another flash of a smile, but it came with a look of concern, too, just discernible from the streetlight coming in. “This okay?” Chris asked, his voice lower, more intimate than Sherlock had heard it before. Gentle, not insisting. “I didn’t realise you really thought I meant shelves. You’ve never heard the expression before?” 

Sherlock shook his head, then found Chris’ mouth on his again in another brief, warm press. 

“Is this all right, then?” Chris murmured. When Sherlock hesitated and didn’t respond, he opened his eyes and looked into Sherlock’s. “Nothing has to happen,” he’d reassured him. “You don’t have to stay at all. I just thought – ”

Sherlock searched his face. “What?” he asked. “What did you think?” The question was without particular inflection; he was at sea. Nothing here was given. 

Chris shrugged, only just visible in the dark corridor. “I was thinking in terms of mutual comfort,” he said. “It seems we could both use it. It’s just – symbiosis, you know?” 

“Symbiosis,” Sherlock repeated, turning the word over in his mind. He’d never considered such an application of the term before, but it wasn’t jarring. 

“That, and I’ve been dying to get my hands on you,” Chris admitted. “Everything about you, Sherlock – you just… I don’t know how to describe what you do to me. So – can I?”

He was already doing it, running the back of a finger up and down Sherlock’s abdomen through his open coat. Sherlock looked down at it. The touch was arguably miniscule, yet the sensation it was incurring was almost alarming in its magnitude. He’d never responded to anyone touching him that way before. It was not unpleasant. It was far from being unpleasant. Rather the opposite, in fact. His face hidden, he must have nodded. 

They never got past the front hall. Sherlock heard his own breath increase sharply as Chris kissed his neck and throat and touched him through his clothes, both hands stroking over the material of his shirt, then moving lower to squeeze his arse with all ten fingers at once. He’d felt himself stir and grow hard, shamefully so. He’d never been aroused in front of another adult before and it was rather mortifying, at least until Chris put his hand on him, there between his legs, and began gently rubbing. It made Sherlock harder than ever. He’d tried very hard to keep himself silent, but he couldn’t control his breathing, the way it shook when Chris unzipped his trousers and slipped his hand inside, wrapping around him and squeezing. Sherlock’s hands had clutched at him, fingers gripping the material of his rough jumper sleeves, head tipping back to escape seeing it, seeing Chris touching him where no one had ever touched him before. He was fully clothed and on his feet, his embarrassing erection brought out into the air between them, Chris touching it, stroking it, pulling at it in a way that should have almost been painful but was anything but – instead, curl after curl of shameful pleasure rose through Sherlock’s frame and came out his mouth and nose against his volition. He was vaguely aware of the sound of what must have been Chris touching himself with his other hand, and in the moment the realisation only hardened his desire still further. Desperation rose in a chokehold in his throat, and Chris heard it and understood and went harder still, gripping and squeezing so quickly that his fist was a blur between them as Sherlock gasped in lungfuls of air. And then the spasm clenched around him and he lost control of himself as his orgasm broke over him in humiliating waves – he jerked his hips forward and ejaculated three times in uncontrollable spasms of wetness and heat and pleasure so thick that it stopped the breath in his throat. It got all over Chris’ hand and jumper and Sherlock closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in embarrassment over the fact. 

“Sorry,” he panted. “I – ”

“Christ, don’t apologise!” For the only time in the encounter, Chris had actually sounded frantic, his fist jerking wildly, and despite himself, Sherlock found himself watching it, fascinated and limply spent after his own release. There was a table holding a telephone and a box of tissues in the corridor and Chris grabbed at the latter with the hand he’d been touching Sherlock with and covered himself just in time as he came, then leaned up against Sherlock in a way that almost felt more intimate than what they’d just done. After a moment, Chris had collected himself, his breath under control again, and pulled back. “That was – thanks for that,” he’d said, sounding like he meant it profoundly. 

Sherlock frowned a little. “I didn’t even do anything for you,” he pointed out. 

That got him a smile again. “Like hell you didn’t.” Chris didn’t explain the comment. After a moment’s internal deliberation, Sherlock decided against asking. 

He reached for a tissue and circumspectly wiped himself with it, then zipped up his trousers. “Er… thank you,” he tried, entirely unsure as to what to say. 

Chris was watching him carefully. “Like I said: symbiosis,” he said. “Mutual need. I was happy to lend a hand. Just in the interim, you know?” 

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded. “Good night,” he said, and went back down the stairs. The door to the shop was still open. Chris would come down and lock it behind him, he thought vaguely, and let himself back out into the rain. 

Later, as he lay awake in his bedroom at Baker Street, all too aware of John’s empty bedroom above him, he thought the incident through and found himself unable to regret that it had happened. It was unexpected, to be sure. In all his years, he’d never had anyone touch him that way. Provoke an orgasm from his flesh. He didn’t even do it all that often to himself. There was no way that Chris would have known that he’d never done that before, never done anything like that with anyone. Sherlock thought through the related vocabulary and came up with the term _hand job_. It seemed inadequate for what it made him feel, having someone else’s hand touching his most intimate, private flesh, provoking that strength of reaction. The very thought of the orgasm itself made him twitch again. He thought of John, and almost felt guilty, until he remembered where John was and what he was likely doing at that time of the night. The thought left him feeling flat and somehow resentful. 

Anyway, it wouldn’t happen again. Sherlock knew that even then, that the incident had decisively ended his trips to the fish and chip shop. Too complicated in every way, and besides, he didn’t want that. Not from Chris, at any rate. But it had been nice. Just once, to feel so wanted. To be made to feel good that way. It _was_ mutual comfort. Nonetheless, it could never have continued and he didn’t want it to. 

It was a moot point in the end: the very next week, he and John were sent to Dartmoor and from then on in it was nonstop until Moriarty’s trial, and everything that transpired from that until Sherlock’s ultimate fall from grace. He knew it on the phone, heard it in his own, broken laugh as John’s anger fell away, replaced by an unwavering confidence in him. (If only he had known how much John believed in him before that point.) He’d known then that Chris had been right: he was in love with John. But by that point, it hadn’t mattered. It was too late. 

He’d tossed the phone away, opened his arms to the void, and let himself 

 

 

fall

 

*** 

Tea after work became a regular thing. Well, regular-ish, anyway: Mary would sometimes text spontaneously. Sometimes the texts took a bit to get through if she was down in the mortuary; the reception down there was never the strongest. Once she only saw Mary’s text hours later, twenty minutes before she was about to leave, coming up to close up and gather her things from the lab. She’d panicked, texting back in flurried apology, worried that she’d muffed it with Mary completely, that offers for post-work tea would stop coming in. There was a pause, one Molly imagined to be a little chilly, but then Mary was there, agreeing to still meet and Molly had gone in relief. 

What had they talked about, at first? Molly hardly remembers now. Sherlock, probably. She hadn’t always appreciated the edge Mary’s voice would take on sometimes, or… not edge, exactly, but sometimes she almost sounded scornful of him. Molly didn’t understand this. They were all the best of friends, Mary and John and Sherlock. Why should she sound that way about him? One day Mary phrased it as Sherlock “having a hold on John”, an unhealthy one, and Molly thought she understood better. She could even sympathise. If Sherlock ever did decide he wanted to let her in, let them become what she knew they could be if only he would consider it properly, she knew already that she would be at least a little bit jealous of John, of their closeness. She’d heard rumours about that very closeness, filthy lies, she’d thought, and reacted hotly upon hearing them from her colleagues and the police. They weren’t like that. They _weren’t_. They were just friends! But their closeness made her squirm all the same, and she wasn’t surprised to find Mary bothered by it, too. 

But Mary… looking back, Molly sees how it began. It started with Mary complimenting her, which somehow always took her by surprise. _That lipstick is perfect on you, you know. And you’ve got such a beautiful mouth._ Molly had stammered and said something about it being too small and Mary had disagreed. _It’s perfect, like a little rosebud. It suits your delicate features._ Molly had found her mouth opening, not sure what to say to this, wrong-footed by the compliments. People didn’t usually compliment her. Not like that. Her superiors used to give rather hearty compliments about her work, calling her _Molly_ first and sort of half-heartedly correcting themselves to _Doctor Hooper_ as an afterthought. _Well done, there, Molly! Good on you! Knew you had in you!_ Not about her face, though. There was Todd, to be sure, but he was different. Always so grateful, but she knew that his gratitude had nothing to do with her face. 

Mary was affectionate with her, too, in a way that Molly hadn’t experienced with other friends. She hasn’t had that many, neither as a child nor as an adult. She’d had a few as a child but they often moved away, and she was so shy that it was difficult to make new ones. Then it was uni and who had time between lab sessions and all the studying? She’s had a few friends; she’s no social pariah. But a proper adult friend, someone to go shopping with, chat about one’s love life with, someone to watch films or crap telly with over take-away curries and too much tea – that was new. She hadn’t known where the lines were. The boundaries. 

Mary would kiss her sometimes, just on the cheek, when Molly would arrive at whichever café Mary had chosen, full of apologies even when she knew she wasn’t late, and Mary would brush them off and kiss her on the cheek. The first time it had happened, Molly was so flustered she’d nearly forgot to return the gesture, and when she had she’d gone in too forcefully and bonked her nose on Mary’s cheek. Mary had dimpled and laughed nicely, calming Molly’s flustered reaction with the distraction of the tea menu and a sly word about the cheesecake she’d noticed in the glass display of sweets by the counter.

And so their friendship had progressed. In those months leading up to the wedding, it was always in public, tea and sometimes supper and always a lot of conversation. They always talked about Sherlock, and Mary always gives her a lot of advice.

“You need to stand up to him,” she says now. It’s March, three months before the wedding. “Reign him in when he’s out of line. Knock him down a peg or two. Then he’ll pay proper attention! Trust me, I do it all the time, and he respects me. As much as he respects anyone, that is.” 

Molly twists her empty latte cup on its saucer. “I think he respects John,” she offers, shaking her fringe out of her eyes. 

Mary makes a derisive sound at this. “He worships the ground John walks on, and it isn’t good for either of them.” Deftly, she changes the subject then. “So, have you decided what you’ll wear to the wedding yet?” 

Molly hesitates. “Not really. I don’t want to clash with your colours, but without knowing what they are…” She doesn’t know why Mary won’t tell her. Not then, anyway. 

“Oh darling, that doesn’t matter,” Mary says effusively. “Wear whatever you like. Are you still bringing Todd?” 

“Well, yes,” Molly says, feeling her brows draw together a little. She gives a small, self-conscious laugh. “I mean, he’s my fiancé…” She doesn’t mean to trail off that way, as though she isn’t sure of the fact. With Mary she does it more often than with some people. Is it just out of a desire not to offend or overstep? 

Mary wrinkles her nose delicately. “How are things there?” she asks frankly. “Any better?” 

Molly still wishes she’d never said what she’d said, about how Todd was in bed. She hadn’t meant to share that, not exactly. Mary had given her a sly dig about Todd, called him dishy and implied that there was a lot to be excited about in certain areas. Molly had made the wrong sort of face and Mary had pounced on it, eventually dragging it all out. “Not really,” Molly says aloud. _Not at all_ would have been more accurate. She thinks of the last time it had happened, five days before, and has to suppress a shudder at the memory, Todd over her, thrusting in and out of her, feeling nothing but a sincere hope that he’d finish soon. She couldn’t feel anything and doesn’t like the way he sweats when they’re doing that. It gathers under her fingers and makes her hands slip on his back. It’s not completely unpleasant. She likes the idea of it, but when it actually happens… less so. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says, trying to laugh and failing, looking down into her empty cup again. 

“Oh darling, I’m sure it’s not you,” Mary says, reaching over to squeeze her forearm reassuringly. “Lots of men are crap at it, that’s all. Have no idea how to please a woman. Not that I’ve anything to complain about, but I’ve been there before.” 

Molly lifts her eyebrows. “Have you?” she asks. “What were they doing wrong?” 

Mary shrugs, suddenly going coy and Molly feels gauche, like she’s asked too much. “Just didn’t know what they were doing. How to touch me, how much pressure to use. That sort of thing.” 

“But – John’s all right, then – where that’s concerned?” Molly dares tack on, hoping it won’t offend Mary. 

Mary smiles and it makes Molly think of a cat that knows it’s about to catch the unsuspecting bird its stalking. “Oh yes,” she assures Molly. “He’s great.” She puts both forearms on the table and leans across it to Molly. “So, how often do you…?” 

Molly feels embarrassed. “Well – once or twice per week, I’d say. Sometimes more often.” This last is a lie and she suspects her warming cheeks will give that away. 

Mary’s golden eyebrows drift upward, but she doesn’t call Molly on the fib. “That’s not very often for an engaged couple,” she points out. “He must really be the pits.” 

Molly thinks of Todd and feels a pang of guilt. “Maybe it’s just me,” she says, shaking her hair out of her eyes again. 

“You might just not be very compatible,” Mary offers. “Then again, with another man… maybe it would work just fine.” She smiles again. “You should use this, you know. To make Sherlock jealous.”

Molly gives an uncertain laugh. “Why should he be jealous of my rather ho-hum sex life?” 

“Oh, don’t tell him that bit,” Mary says. “Just tell him that it’s fantastic and see how he reacts.” 

Molly tries to imagine herself doing precisely that and can’t quite see it working. “Well, I guess I don’t need Sherlock to be jealous. I’m marrying Todd, after all. I’m done with all that.” 

Mary’s expression speaks eloquent volumes, but she merely shakes her head. “All right,” she says dubiously, as though Molly is turning Sherlock down and should be thinking better of it in her opinion. “I always thought you and Sherlock would be just wonderful together, but of course you’re right. You and Todd will sort this out. You’ll be very happy together.” 

“I think we will,” Molly agrees, making her tone a little firmer than she meant. Which of them is she trying to convince? The question asks itself before she can suppress it, and she shivers. 

*** 

She tries it. Just in case it will work. She got the words out, airily told Sherlock how very much sex she and Todd were having, but his only reaction was a combination of confusion and awkward, _what-on-earth-possessed-you-to-tell-me-that_ -ness. The entire conversation ended up making her feel defiant enough that she actually instigates things with Todd that night. 

It isn’t good. She’s on her back, as always, her hips beginning to cramp a little, and he’s on top of her, inside her, thrusting away. His back is sweaty under her palms, as usual, so she moves her hands to his upper arms instead. She closes her eyes, hating the embarrassing slapping sound their bodies are making, or rather that his body is making against hers, driving her ever closer to the headboard. Soon her head will be pressing into it, at least if he doesn’t finish soon. 

He’s making noises, grunting and panting and occasionally murmuring “oh yeah” and Molly makes herself at least breathe audibly, so that he’ll think she’s participating and enjoying herself. She thinks of the bemused/irritated look Sherlock produced when she told him how much sex she and Todd were having and wants to shrivel at the memory of her own frankness. She hasn’t got a gift for conversation; he’s right about that. Did he imagine them doing this when she said it? Does it make him uncomfortable to think of her this way? She hopes at the very least that it put the notion into his head that she is, in fact, a person who has sex, who likes having sex. 

Just not this sex. It’s not his fault; he tries really hard. He’s asked her what she likes and the truth is that she doesn’t really know. She should like this. They’re getting married. 

Her head is now pressing into the headboard. “Erm – ” she starts, but then Todd comes, his voice loud and overriding her attempt at a protest, and in the throes of his coming her head gets banged audibly against the wood, thunking three or four painful times. She’s actively pushing at him but he’s too far gone to notice or care at this point, cursing to himself as he shudders and spasms against her, filling his condom. (This thought fills her with disgust.) After a moment or two, he pulls out at last, holding the condom in place, finally allowing her to let her legs relax as she tugs the blankets over her lower half. 

Todd gets the condom off and holds it up proudly for her inspection. “Wow,” he says, still breathless. “That was a good one!” 

She wrinkles her nose and tries to agree at the same time. “Yeah. Really good,” she echoes, but it’s faint. 

Todd doesn’t notice and she simultaneously feels relief that he hasn’t noticed her half-hearted response, and also that she would rather like to slap his stupid, unobservant face. Sherlock – the thought comes unbidden – would _assuredly_ notice if his sexual partner had failed to achieve an orgasm. 

(She’s had them before. Not often, but once or twice, mostly at her own hand. But never with a man inside her. She believes it can happen. It just hasn’t yet.)

Todd bounces around in the bed, disposing of the condom in the wastepaper basket and collapsing with a great sigh of satisfaction. Molly turns onto her side, away from him. “That was great!” Todd says, still enthusiastic, and is undeterred when she makes a vague sound of agreement. He shifts over and puts an arm around her. “I love you,” he says, but it sounds more like gratitude than love to her, gratitude that she lets him spend himself in her. Maybe that’s cruel. Maybe he really does love her. But he’s not particularly attentive to her in bed. 

“Love you, too,” she says, and now he leans over and kisses her. That’s better. She does like this part, and after a moment or two, she turns onto her back and puts her arms around him, and he makes a pleased sound into their kiss. It winds down after a little and Todd smiles at her, then kisses her on the forehead. 

“Good night,” he says. 

Molly turns toward him and puts her arm over his chest, her head on his shoulder, and tells herself that she’s very lucky to have him. “Night,” she says, and if it sounds a little hollow, he doesn’t notice that, either. 

*** 

His arms still hurt where they were strained by the chains, and the cuts on his back hurt from the whips. It doesn’t matter. He’s home. 

He volleys back and forth with Mycroft as the nameless assistant cuts his hair and shaves off his stubble (straight razor as he requested; he loathes having stubble) but has thought for only one thing: John. He can hear Mycroft’s underlying warning to stay away, but that simply isn’t possible. John is the one thing that Mycroft would never be capable of understanding. There is no way to explain the connection between them those last few months at Baker Street, the constant strain surrounding them that was covering something else, something which he didn’t understand properly until far too late, made real in the hands of a virtual stranger. _It’s just – symbiosis_ , Chris had explained, breathless in the darkened corridor of his small flat above the fish and chip shop, his hand wringing unparalleled pleasure from Sherlock’s flesh. He hadn’t made the connection even then. What he had learned was that he had underestimated sexual contact to almost shocking proportions, and he knew that he craved something unnameable from John, something that paced restlessly within him like a lion in a cage, switching its tail and waiting for – what? He hadn’t seen it until the phone call. What it was. What he so desperately wanted from John, and the irony of the timing was bitter enough that he could almost have laughed. How poetic, even, that his late-wakening body should finally stir to produce not sexual release for John, but a single tear instead. Symbolic, perhaps, of lost opportunities, declarations left forever unsaid. Perhaps if he survived the fall, perhaps one day there would be a time to say it.

He’d said goodbye instead. 

He stayed in London until his funeral, wanting to keep an eye on John, then plunged into eastern Europe and a mission he never expected to last two full years. It was interminable, and he was lonely. In addition, knowing at last what he truly desired of John made the separation all the more difficult. His body and heart had connected in a way he’d always prevented from happening in the past, and once awakened there was no forcing his previously-dormant sexuality back into ignorance, no way to stop himself from dreaming of John’s touch instead, John’s lips on his, warm and pliant and wanting. He could have indulged, he supposes. Could have found someone else along the way, just to take the edge off the need burning within him. But somehow, knowing for certain that only John could satisfy that need, it didn’t seem worth his while. He never did it again, keeping himself on permanent reserve for John and John alone, despite never knowing whether he would see another day every time he closed his eyes. He thought of John constantly, even in his chains. 

And so he goes to the Landmark to meet John. He must. 

The reunion is an unmitigated disaster. He envisioned it so many times while he was away, never making plans per se but unable to prevent himself from imagining how it could go. He imagined that there would be a chance to, somehow, in some fashion, verge on the unspoken things left unsaid during that last phone call, of John’s unwavering faith in him, of Sherlock’s missing explanation and subsequent apology. He’d thought, in some vague manner, that they would pick up where they had left off. His facetious _What life? I’ve been away_ had been only half a joke: he had genuinely hoped that John had lingered where they were before, so that they could resume from that point. 

That hope flickered and died when he saw the photos of Mary in Mycroft’s file, the receipt for the ring John had purchased two days prior. That night would be the night, then. Hopeless or not, he simply had to see John.

He should have remembered that rage renders John deaf. 

What he does remember after is the look in John’s eyes upon seeing him, the deep blue therein darkened in disbelief and hurt, the glance at Mary as though to confirm that Sherlock was no mere hallucination. The smash of his fist on the table, make the silver and glass jump and clink. 

He remembers John’s hands on his throat, strong and warm and solidly real. 

Conflicts of this nature have never been his strength. He found himself continually losing any tack he tried, made all the more awkward by Mary’s presence (stupid; he should have waited until John was alone). He singularly failed to regain John’s affections, John cursing him and storming off toward a taxi and leaving him there with Mary. Leaving him to consider Mary properly for the first time. He saw her then, and realised as she coolly promised to broker the reconciliation he failed to achieve, that this time it was going to be very different. She was no standard girlfriend. He had lost John, lost him to her. 

He went home and winced as he peeled the new white shirt off his bleeding back and put it directly into the trash. He would never want to wear it again anyway. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked weary. He turned away and shut off the light, going into his bedroom to crawl with despairing relief back into his own bed at long last. He lay awake trying not to think about John for a long while, the whip cuts on his back throbbing gently, then finally fell into an exhausted sleep. 

_This, er, going to be your new arrangement, is it?_ Lestrade asks at the crime scene the next day, meaning Molly, and Sherlock shrugs it off. Lestrade asks about John and Sherlock cannot keep the tightness out of his voice as he explains that John isn’t in the picture anymore. He tries. He really does. He never meant Molly to replace John, of course. It just seemed like a decent gesture. He doesn’t have the words to explain to her that it’s all he’s got to offer her, the chance to spend part of a day with him this way. But she still looks as though she yearns for that never-to-be dinner, despite the diamond circlet on her fourth finger, and a surge of pity mixed with fellow-feeling stirs within him. It cannot be denied that Molly’s company very slightly dimmed the roaring void within him, though he couldn’t shake off John’s barbs and accusations in his head all day. It was something, though, and surely he owes her for her silence and her friendship over the years. 

So he offered chips. It was a spur of the moment idea. He remembers Chris’ turn of phase about the shelves and uses it, but Molly doesn’t seem to recognise the expression, either, and remains innocently hopeful. They part ways and he goes anyway, and knows then why he’s really going. It’s desperation that pushes open the door of the chip shop, desperation to be seen and known and wanted again, desperation urged by the last thing he heard John say to him last night, possibly forever. When he sees someone else behind the counter, Sherlock stops short and almost leaves. Instead he stands by the door and listens to the older man serving the customers, his tone familiar, exchanging quips and bits of information, and knows that he has worked there for a long time now. Eventually the queue dies down and the proprietor calls him over, so Sherlock goes. He’s in a chip shop and he hasn’t eaten all day; he might as well order. He does so, briefly, then asks about Chris. 

“The last owner? He sold up and moved out to the West Country with his wife, sometime last year,” the older man tell him. He points. “Vinegar’s there.” 

Sherlock nods to show he heard and takes his chips. Foiled even here. It would almost be funny, but he’s not in the mood to laugh. His very skin seems to ache with want. It would have been a far distant second to what he really wants, but it would have been something. Someone who was glad to see him, to know that he’s still alive, who wanted to touch him, be with him. He thinks of the older man mentioning Chris’ wife as he walks back to Baker Street, slowly eating the chips, and knows that it wouldn’t have happened anyway. The chips are good, at least. It’s likely only nostalgia that makes him think that Chris made them better, nostalgia washed in the memory of comfort during John’s silences, in cold rain and dark nights of wishing he had a better understanding of people in general and John in specific. 

He’s only been home five minutes when Mary arrives, breathless and babbling about a skip code. The chips fall from his hands, her words falling into place as he stares at her. He has thought for only one thing: John is in danger. Nothing else matters. 

Nothing else ever has. He turns and bolts for the stairs. 

*** 

After the longest, slowest motorcycle drive of his life to date, Sherlock shoves people out of the way with no regard whatsoever for them. He has thought only for John. 

The clues about John’s whereabouts were transparent, and Sherlock doesn’t even care if he was equally transparent in front of Mary in his urgency regarding John. It couldn’t possibly matter. He throws himself into the bonfire, throwing pieces of wood aside, and hauls John out at last. He is deaf to Mary’s caterwauling, deaf to whatever the people in the crowd are saying. He kneels over John and pats his face with his gloved hand, the urgency of his voice not affecting the gentleness of his touch. This, too, is dangerous, particularly in front of Mary, but he simply does not care. John’s eyes flutter open and Sherlock feels the breath in his chest gust out in relief so frank it leaves him hollow. He helps John sit up so that he can breathe more easily, expel the smoke from his lungs, and supports him as Mary peers into his face and peppers him with worried questions. He and John aren’t speaking much, not directly, but their eyes connect here and there and somehow Sherlock knows that things are better between them. Not settled, not by a long shot, but better. He watches Mary pull John away from him, leading him toward a cab. Sherlock watches them get into it and thinks of Mary having driven her car to Baker Street and that they therefore could have shared the cab, unless they’re going straight home. (Home. Baker Street is John’s home.) Sherlock lets the rebellious thought flare and then grumble itself into silence as their cab pulls away from the kerb. It doesn’t matter. John is safe, at least until Sherlock can get his hands around the throat of whomever drugged, abducted, and put him into a fire in the first place. 

He puts his gloved hands into his pocket and goes to find his own cab. He feels empty and flat. When he walks through the open door to the sitting room, he looks down and sees his abandoned chips on the carpet and thinks now that even if Chris were still around, it could never happen again. Not knowing what he knows about himself now. He loves John; there can be no other substitutes. No second best or third or distant twentieth, no fractional stand-ins to serve as a temporary distraction. Only John would do, and it must be couched in conditionals because it will never come to pass. Mary has laid her claim on John despite the incomplete proposal, and John has not changed his mind about marrying her in spite of Sherlock’s return. He must accept this if there is to be any hope of persuading John back into his life in some humble, inadequate form: accept the fact of Mary. The prospect of a life without John in it, without the hope of John coming back to it, is not one Sherlock finds he can tolerate. 

He feels weary. He divests himself of his coat and shoes, thinks about making tea, then abandons the notion and cleans up the remains of the chips instead. He’ll probably never return to the shop now. He deposits the cold, greasy remains into the kitchen bin and ducks into the darkened corridor leading to his bedroom. His second night back and he already he finds himself in a state of heavy melancholy, wondering what the point of it all ever was. He knows, of course: he wasn’t about to allow them to kill John. Yet the hope of coming home, of coming back to John, of resuming their life together, flawed as it was, served as a motivating factor during all the time he was away. Now, with that stripped away and the sinking knowledge that Mary is to be a permanent fixture, Sherlock feels flat. Everything seems to have lots its savour without John.

Perhaps he’ll come around. 

Sherlock gets into bed and stares in the dark up at the ceiling that separates him from John’s old room directly above. Part of what made the past two years as difficult as they were was the sense of isolation and impermanence that seemed to pervade his existence, the thought that any day could be his last. The terrorists – whichever ones he’d been pursuing at any given moment – could discover him, put an end to him, and no one would ever even know that he had died, or where or how. John grieved his death the first time, to be sure, but to be thought of as dead, to have precisely no one know of his actual death, no one remark upon it, tell stories about him, remember his more sterling qualities, weep over his absence – this notion made him feel as though his life would leave no footprint on the world he would have left behind. He came to realise that he yearned to be witnessed: to have his life seen and felt, his experiences shared, his memories not his alone, but kept safe in the mind of someone almost as familiar to him as he himself. Someone who would know him as John was coming to know him in those last six months before Bart’s Hospital, who could predict him, scold him over repeated offenses that he wasn’t even aware of, _Christ, how many times have I got to tell you not to leave the sponge in the water, Sherlock?_ , pointing out his daily peccadillos and knowing him well enough to be able to say, his voice steady and unwavering, _No, I know you’re for real, one hundred percent_ in the face of Sherlock’s own doubts. 

John cannot witness his life from Mary’s flat. This is unmistakeably clear. The thought makes Sherlock feel utterly desolate. 

And yet, another voice argues, something would surely be better than nothing. Something is worth fighting for. He’ll do it for real, apologise properly. Say whatever John needs to hear, and mean it when he says it. Give John the right moment to allow himself to back down and accept it, if he seems to want to. It won’t be easy for him; John cannot allow himself to change his stance. He considers his word as good as a sworn oath, vital to his integrity, so it would have to be a very good reason to back down and accept Sherlock’s apology. Perhaps the right moment will present itself. 

Sherlock’s phone buzzes with a text. His heart gives a spasm of hope before he can squash it down with logical argument – John should be sleeping after his ordeal, surely – and turns on his side to reach for it. It’s not John. It’s his mother. Seeing her name on his screen puts an altogether different sensation into his chest. 

_Hello darling! Myc tells us you’ve come_  
_back, safe and sound! So good to hear it!_  
_We’ll pop up to town tomorrow to see you,_  
_hear all about it. So glad to have you back in_  
_London at last! We’ve missed you._  
_Mum (and Dad) xx_

Sherlock feels oddly like crying, unduly touched by his mother’s message. It has been a long time, indeed. He texts back _Come around ten, then. S_ and hopes that it won’t interfere with anything related to John. He replaces the phone on the night stand and curls his hands under his chin, feeling very slightly comforted by the text. At least someone is glad of his return. 

When John walks in the next day, Sherlock unceremoniously hastens his parents from the sitting room (just as well; his mother had got to the rambling stage wherein she’d presumably forgotten the reason they’d actually come) and has a chance to try out an apology, a real one, and John neither accepts it nor rejects it. By the end of the day, they’ve faced death together once again and Sherlock notes that it was he who mentioned Mary in what could have been their last moments alive, and not John. John talked about them, about having wished that Sherlock wasn’t dead. Sherlock sees the opportunity and takes it, and – unlike his disastrous attempt in the restaurant two nights prior, this time it works and John forgives him. He even laughs, and in that moment, Sherlock silently concedes: if what John wants is Mary, then Sherlock will accept it and take whatever John is willing to give him. Perhaps in time, he could even come to like Mary. Perhaps this could work. Right in this particular moment, there is nothing in the universe that he would deny John, not even this. 

And so he does it. Not because he wants in any way for John to go through with it and marry Mary, but because it’s what John wants, or thinks he wants. Sherlock feels certain that, at least in certain moments, it could be more, between them. It could have been more. Perhaps that’s the correct wording. Perhaps if that day at Bart’s Hospital had never occurred. Perhaps if he had never disappeared, lied to John, made him grieve. It’s clear now that John may have forgiven him, but he isn’t about to give him a second chance at breaking him the way Sherlock saw him break at his grave site. John’s choice of Mary over him is the consequence of his own actions. It’s as simple as that.

And somehow he gets through it, gets through the planning and the day itself. It would all be rather terrible if he let himself think about it too much, but he doesn’t. It’s there in the corners of his mind and the shadows of his thoughts, whispering darkly, but he ignores it in favour of starting to work on the Magnussen case in earnest the moment the wedding is over at last. He buries himself in the work, and if the panacea of trying to lead Magnussen into believing him to have an addiction problem works a little too well, then so be it: for John’s sake, it must be done. (And it’s easier sometimes, to let it carry him away, muffle everything else for just a little while.)

It’s an intriguing case, yet he finds himself filled with disgust at Magnussen himself. He finds himself deeply unwilling to engage with the man, but if, as he suspects, Magnussen was behind John’s abduction and near death, then there is nothing that can stop him from taking Magnussen down. 

Or so he thinks until the day he is reunited with John at last and confronts what he thinks is a desperate Lady Smallwood in Magnussen’s study. But then it is Mary who turns around calmly, coolly, smiles, the smile winning out over the feigned tremor in her voice a moment earlier, and does not hesitate as she pulls the trigger and puts a bullet into his heart. 

And so he falls a second time. 

*** 

It’s funny: Molly never imagined things would end up like this, or at least the way they are right now. She and Mary on one side, Sherlock and John on the other. Mary refuses to say why John left her the very day after they got back from the honeymoon and more or less pretends Molly hasn’t spoken whenever she’s tried to bring it up. She wants to be tactful, so she stopped trying to probe after the first few times. Mary seems strangely unbothered by it, by John’s absence. Molly rather assumes that Mary is just better at hiding it than she lets on, but it does strike her as a little odd, especially given that Mary is pregnant. She’s only just started showing a little, which Molly has read is normal at three months. It’s mid-July. John left on the twenty-fifth of June, according to Mary. She said it rather airily, refilling Molly’s wineglass with rosé and coming round to sit next to her on the sofa again. 

That’s another thing that’s changed: ever since John left, Mary invites her over now. They’ve shifted since before the wedding of their late-afternoon teas in cafés. Now Mary texts her and says things like _I’m bored. Come entertain me when you’ve finished at the lab.xx_ Molly was flattered the first time, at being allowed in on this deeper level. She and Mary _have_ got closer, after all. Mary’s given her heaps of advice, especially regarding her love life. Or lack thereof, now. Molly sighs inwardly, thinking _zero for two, then_. She finally bit the bullet and told Todd that she couldn’t marry him after all, wincing internally, but she was surprised by how firmly and clearly her voice had come out. She said all the right things, and he was gallant and understanding about it, even if his eyes looked bruised in a way she’ll never forget. Serves her right, she thinks: trying to marry one person while still in love with someone else. As for him, her last contact with Sherlock involved her slapping him about the face, Mary surreptitiously giving her approving looks from across the way where she’d been tending to Sherlock’s hobo friend. _He’ll respect you more for it,_ Mary had advised sagely. Sherlock hadn’t looked particularly impressed by it, though. His lips had tightened in irritation and he’d given her a jab about Todd that stung and seemed to fly in the face of how nice he’d been about Todd in the first place, that day when she’d tagged along in John’s place while he solved crimes. She’d hurt him, she realised later. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so cruel; he’s stopped being like that ever since he went away. Perhaps Mary doesn’t know him as well as she thinks. 

And yet she’s so clever. It was she who finally said one day over dinner not long before the wedding, _Look, do you want to spend the rest of your life going unsatisfied? Besides, you belong with Sherlock. We all know that. He’ll come around one day, and then would you want to see yourself locked down with someone else? Think about it, darling._ Molly _had_ thought, and thought some more. It was true, though: she liked the idea of Todd far more than she actually liked Todd himself. She liked people seeing her with him, seeing her loved and claimed by someone, the ring on her finger visible proof of that. She liked not being the hanger-on, the lovelorn singleton of their little group. But she didn’t love Todd and she knew it. It was only two weeks after the wedding that she finally did it, sat him down over breakfast and brought it up after they’d finished eating. 

He’d taken it well, at least. There was no drama, though he’d teared up. She had, too, but there was no regret. Maybe he knew it in his heart, too, that they weren’t meant to be together. 

Molly sighs now and Mary catches it. “What’s up?” she asks, rather brightly for someone whose new husband just walked out on her for no apparent reason. Molly knew that something must be up already; Sherlock’s friend had said something about John keeping his shirts packed all the time or something, back in the lab, but she’d been paying more attention to Sherlock himself and hadn’t really picked up on it at the time. 

She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says. “I was just thinking about how different things were back in spring. You and John were still together and me and Todd, and now…” She shrugs, looking at her hands and her bare ring finger. “Now everything’s changed.”

Mary leans over and pats her on the thigh. “Men,” she says briskly. “They always cause all the trouble. How’s your rosé?” 

Molly swirls it in her glass and takes a sip. “It’s delicious,” she says. “Perfect for a warm day like today. I wish you could be drinking it, too.”

Mary smiles. “Never mind. Have you thought about what we should order in? I was thinking Italian, maybe.” 

Molly had been rather thinking of Indian, but it seems that Mary has already made up her mind. “Sure,” she says, deciding that she doesn’t care. “Do you have a place in mind?” 

Mary reaches somewhere behind her for a takeaway menu. “I’m going to have the linguine pesto,” she announces, and Molly confirms inwardly that Mary has definitely already chosen firmly. 

She takes the menu and scans it. “That sounds good, actually,” she says. Mary likes it when people choose the same thing as her. “I’ll get that, too.” 

Mary smiles approvingly. “And for our chick flick?” she asks. “I’ve narrowed it down to three. You can choose.” 

Molly looks at the three DVDs Mary’s got fanned out in front of her. She’s never seen any of them. “What about this one?” she asks, pointing at the middle one and hoping that’s the right choice. 

It is: Mary beams. “Fantastic choice. I’ll call in the order if you want to pop the disc in?” 

Molly nods. “Sure,” she says, and goes about setting up the DVD. 

They eat dinner and watch the film and Mary stretches out her legs and puts them in Molly’s lap. Molly’s a little surprised, but also pleased that Mary is being this relaxed and friends-y with her, so she doesn’t object, lightly resting her hand on Mary’s ankle. When she leaves that night, Mary kisses her on both cheeks again and tells her warmly to come back soon. Molly agrees readily. What else has she got going on? 

*** 

Mary goes on being affectionate with her, but it doesn’t change, doesn’t… cross certain lines, at least, until one evening early in August, a Friday. Molly’s come straight from the lab, setting her umbrella and purse down near the door. It hasn’t rained yet, but they’re promising thunderstorms tonight and Molly wanted to be prepared. The heat of the afternoon is sultry, not reaching her down in the basement lab, but wafting up from the pavement as soon as she’d stepped outside, getting the bus to Mary’s flat. She’s stopped even thinking of it as ‘Mary and John’s’; somehow she can hardly even picture John here. Probably because she’s only ever seen him at Baker Street, but it’s odd that his presence should have disappeared so thoroughly from this place that he lived in for the better part of the past year. 

She drops down onto the sofa and accepts a cold glass of rosé from Mary with gratitude. Mary always seems to buy rosé for whatever reason, though obviously she can’t drink it herself. There’s some inner joke there, something that plays about Mary’s lips when she says the word _rosé_ , but she hasn’t explained it and Molly hasn’t asked. She’s learning Mary slowly, learning to let her unfurl into their friendship at her own pace. She sips the cool wine, sweet on her tongue, and lets out a deep sigh of contentment and relief. “That’s delicious,” she says. “I was needing a drink.”

Mary comes to stand behind her; she pulled the sofa away from the wall after John left so that it would be closer to the telly. “Long day?” she asks, bending to kiss Molly on the cheek from behind the sofa. She slips her arms around Molly’s shoulders and her right hand inadvertently settles onto Molly’s small left breast. 

She makes to nod, but finds herself frozen. “Er – ” she blurts out, but doesn’t know what to say next. 

Mary seems to realise then, but isn’t at all appalled by her faux-pas. “Oh, sorry,” she says casually, then actually _squeezes_ before moving her hand and pressing another kiss to Molly’s flushed cheek. A warm, amused laugh ghosts over Molly’s ear. “What’s a bit of tit-love between friends, anyway?” 

Molly is still beet-red, but she doesn’t want to seem stuffy, either. (Is this how most women carry on with their female friends? If so, she missed the memo!) She doesn’t say anything and Mary comes round and sits down on the end of the sofa, facing her. “Sorry,” Molly says, still completely flustered. “I’m just not – ”

“Not used to that?” Mary is kind, her eyes deep and understanding, her smile gentle. “It’s me who should apologise – I’m used to being very casual about that sort of thing. Doesn’t mean a thing, it’s just fun, you know. For what it’s worth, you’ve got a lovely set. I’ve noticed right from the start.” 

Molly feels pleased in spite of herself. “You mean my mosquito bites?” she ventures. “That’s what Todd called them.”

An actual flash of anger crosses Mary’s face. “Sod him,” she retorts. “Did he really say that? What a wanker!” 

Molly feels warmed by this, and takes several long sips of wine, draining her glass. “He did,” she says, the prickling embarrassment of his tease rising up again and making her angry. “He’d say it like a joke. ‘Oh, what’ve you done with your baps, then? Take them off for an airing, did you? Oh _there_ they are, these little mosquito bites!’” She looks down at them. “I know they’re not much to look at, but he didn’t need to say all that.” 

“No, he didn’t,” Mary says firmly, and Molly feels a flush of affection for her friend. Her shoulders loosen and she reaches for the rosé and refills her glass. 

“What are we doing tonight?” she asks. 

Mary shrugs. “Dinner and a movie?” she suggests. “It’s date night and neither of us have got dates, thanks to the pricks in our lives, so why not?” 

She gets up and goes over to the shelf where she keeps the DVDs. Molly watches her back, then decides to ask. “Do you know where he is? John, I mean… did he say?” 

Mary’s head shakes, but she says without looking back at her, “No, but he doesn’t need to. You and I both know the one place he would go.” 

Molly does know. “Baker Street,” she supplies. 

Mary sounds grim. “Baker Street,” she agrees. 

Molly hesitates. “I haven’t seen Sherlock in ages, you know. He hasn’t been to the lab since the day I did his drug test. I suppose he’s angry about the slapping.”

“What?” Mary turns around to look at her, sounding a little surprised. 

“When I slapped him,” Molly repeats. “The day John brought him in for a drug test. I expect he’s upset with me.” 

Mary still looks surprised. “Oh,” she says. “No, I don’t think it’s that. I don’t think he’s been solving any crimes lately.” 

Molly feels her brow furrow. “What do you know that I don’t?” she asks. “When has Sherlock ever taken a break from that?” 

Mary shrugs, looking away. “I don’t want to talk about either of them,” she says. “I keep it together pretty well most of the time, but having this baby on my own and John not even talking to me… it’s hard. It’s really hard.” 

Molly is overcome with remorse. “Of course,” she says instantly. She pats the sofa next to her. “Forget I said anything.” Mary comes over, an uncertain expression on her face, and when she sits down, Molly leans over and hugs her. “And you’re not on your own,” she says firmly. “You’ve got me. I’ll be here with you through the whole thing. You’re not having this baby on your own.” 

Mary’s arms come around her then and for a long moment they just hug. “No one has held me for so long,” Mary says softly, after a little. “Not since the honeymoon. Only you, when you come or go.” 

Molly hugs tighter. “You’re not alone,” she repeats, in case Mary needs to hear it. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Mary exhales deeply, and after a bit she pulls away. “Thank you,” she says, glancing into Molly’s eyes. “I haven’t said, but… it hasn’t been easy, this summer. Your friendship means so much to me. I hope you know that.” 

Molly smiles and nods. “Yeah,” she says. “I do.” She shakes her fringe out of her eyes and looks down at the DVD Mary’s chosen. “I haven’t seen this one, either,” she says. “Shall I put it in?”

“Tell me what you want to eat first,” Mary says. “I’ll order while you set up.” 

They eat dinner and watch the movie in companionable silence, but Molly’s mind is still half on their conversation, as well as on the feeling of Mary’s warm hand cupping her breast. An hour into the film, the thunderstorm starts and nearly drowns out the DVD. Mary pauses it and gets up to go and look out the window. “It’s really coming down out there,” she comments. “You’ll get soaked going home.” 

“It might stop by then,” Molly says, not caring much one way or another. She’s got her umbrella. She sits up and stretches, stiff from the long day in the lab and then sitting in the same position for the last hour. 

Mary catches this. “You stiff?” she asks, crossing back toward the sofa. 

“Yeah. Long day,” Molly says. Mary comes to stand behind her and starts massaging her shoulders. Molly exhales audibly and pulls her ponytail up into a bun so that it won’t be in the way. “That feels amazing. Thank you.” 

Mary sounds surprised by the thanks. “Of course,” she says. “Your shoulders are tight. Did Todd never give you massages?” 

Molly makes a disgruntled sound. “He was the pits at that, too. It was always too hard or so light I could hardly feel it, nothing in between.”

“They never know how to touch us, do they?” Mary’s voice is dry, and Molly finds herself surprised. 

“I thought things with John were so great,” she begins, not wanting to offend Mary when things are going so well. 

Mary makes a sound that’s neither agreement nor disagreement. “When he was putting effort into it, it was good, yeah,” she says. “But certain things, they just don’t get. He has his strengths, don’t get me wrong. But I hear you about being too rough or too gentle in some respects.”

The massage feels heavenly. Molly drops her head forward and closes her eyes, letting the sensation soak through her as her muscles slowly relax. “Well,” she says, her eyes still closed, “I have to admit that the way you touched me – even by accident – that was better than anything Todd ever did for me.” 

Mary’s hands go still. Then, “Do you mean that?” she asks. “That little squeeze?” 

Molly nods. 

Mary bends over again, the way she did before, and says, “Well, I’m happy to oblige anytime. I haven’t got any problem with… getting close to my friends. Very close, even.” 

Molly opens her eyes. “D’you mean – ”

Mary nuzzles her nose into Molly’s neck and slips her hands under Molly’s arms and onto her breasts, both of them this time, her lips warm on Molly’s neck as she hums her agreement. “Why not?” she asks as Molly sucks in breath at the touch. “God only knows what John and Sherlock are getting up to behind our backs. Why shouldn’t we have a little fun while they’re ignoring us, hmm?” She presses another kiss to Molly’s neck. “Does this feel good?” 

Her hands are squeezing and squeezing, her fingertips pressing into Molly’s stiffened nipples and all she can do is gasp and nod, her mouth falling open. Her entire body has flushed with arousal in a way she thought herself practically incapable of feeling, at least with Todd. Her breath exhales shakily. “Mm-hm,” she manages, and Mary rewards her by nibbling at her ear. The sensation sends a bolt of hot sensation pulsing into Molly’s pelvis and she tries not to gasp, but it’s difficult. 

The thunder is rattling the windows and partly muffling Molly’s heavy breathing as Mary unbuttons her shirt and tugs it from her unresisting arms. Molly doesn’t know where this is going but at the moment she’s a little buzzed on rosé and feeling too good to care. Mary has done this before with other friends. It doesn’t mean anything; they’re just having a little fun. Mary touches her breasts through the silk of the bra Molly barely needs to wear, and then she removes that, too. Molly is still sat on the sofa, naked from the waist up, Mary bent over the sofa behind her, rolling Molly’s rock-hard nipples in her fingers and sucking at her earlobe. They’re not talking. Mary’s mouth is occupied and Molly is just breathing and feeling, her lips parted, glad that Mary can’t see her face. 

Mary reaches down with one hand casually unbuttons Molly’s khakis, and that sets off a small alarm. “Wh-what are you – ” she starts, but Mary only makes an admonishing sound. 

“Relax,” she says, her lips catching at Molly’s ear. “I’m just making you feel good. You deserve to, after enduring all of that nonsense with Todd. I’m going to touch you the way he should have. That’s all. Just relax and enjoy it.” 

“Mary…” Molly’s voice trails off, but she doesn’t do anything to stop Mary when her nimble fingers unzip Molly’s trousers and then slide into her sensible cotton knickers. Mary’s middle finger slips in and settles right there, where she’s most sensitive, and Molly gasps. 

“You’re already so wet,” Mary murmurs appreciatively. “Spread a little, darling. Yes, just like that. Good girl.” 

Molly bites her lip and tries not to make any sound as Mary’s finger begins to rub in gentle circles over her swollen clit, wetness trickling down and back as she tries to hide the fact that she’s tilting her hips forward to give Mary even better access. It feels like nothing she’s ever felt before. She’s never been with anyone who knew how to touch her here. Todd was too rough, her body squirming away from his touch, over-sensitised and irritable, and no one before him ever even tried that. But Mary knows exactly how to do this, her wrist bent to put two fingers into Molly now and she’s much too far gone to protest this, though she feels as though she should – Mary is thrusting those two fingers in and out of her now, the heel of her hand pressing into Molly’s clit, her other hand pinching Molly’s left nipple hard. Now Mary is rubbing her again, hard, and Molly moans without realising she was going to, moans again, the breath gusting out hot over her teeth. Mary’s fingers are inside her again, plunging and plunging, liquid sounds squishing around her fingers and embarrassing Molly but it feels too good to stop it or protest and she isn’t, she isn’t even trying to. The climax rushes over her suddenly, all of her muscles clenching around Mary’s fingers and spasming, and she grabs at Mary’s hand with both of her own and rides her fingers, her channel squeezing and squeezing around them as pleasure swims through her veins and floods her senses. 

Then it releases her and she’s panting, slumped back against the sofa, and Mary is still touching her, caressing her with long, slow, gentle strokes as Molly comes down from the heights, trembling. She’s still bent over Molly, kissing her sweaty neck now. Is kissing part of this, too, Molly wonders, stars glittering at the edges of her vision. She doesn’t know what to say; surely ‘thank you’ would be ridiculous, but this felt _good_ , despite the fact that she’s still rather shocked that it happened in the first place. “Um, wow,” she says finally, her voice still shot through with breath. 

Mary chuckles in her ear and withdraws her fingers. “You’re welcome,” she says, though Molly didn’t say thank you. She pulls herself upright and goes into the kitchen to wash her hands, giving Molly a moment to pull herself together, pulling her damp knickers back up and zipping up her khakis, then reaching for her bra and shirt. This she only buttons partway, lest Mary think she’s a prude or something, in spite of what just happened. To show that she’s cool with it, if Mary’s normally just like this with her friends. It’s the twenty-first century, after all. Maybe this is a thing and she’s just never heard of it, casual sex between friends, or whatever one calls that. Is it sex if only one person is getting off? She thinks of Todd then. It was certainly sex with him, and only one person ever got off then, so by that definition, that was sex, then. She just had sex with Mary. 

The thought makes her feel uneasy, somehow. 

Mary comes to the door of the kitchen and stands there, holding a glass of water and sipping from it as she surveys Molly from there. She smiles. “We good?” she asks, in her usual, direct way. 

Molly nods. “Quite,” she says. “You’re right: Todd certainly never knew how to do _that_ for me.” 

“You were long overdue, then,” Mary says. She comes back to the sofa and sits down. “Shall we carry on?” she asks, gesturing with the remote. 

Molly had all but forgotten the film. “Oh – right,” she says, still feeling a little odd about the whole thing, but not bad. Not bad at all, in fact. She reaches over and pats Mary’s thigh. “But let’s make that popcorn first, if you like.” 

Mary looks down at Molly’s hand, and smiles. “All right,” she says, and there’s an interesting tone to her voice. Molly isn’t sure what it is, or what it means, but Mary doesn’t explain. 

*** 

The storm is still going when the film ends, and she ends up staying the night. She sleeps on the sofa and Mary retreats into her bedroom. In the morning they make toast and tea and Mary doesn’t say anything about what happened last night, so neither does Molly. She leaves after breakfast and goes back to her flat to get some cleaning done before the week starts up again. 

However, the next time she goes over, Mary greets her at the door and tugs her over to the sofa to show her the results of some tests she had. Molly looks at her in surprise. “You should have told me,” she says. “I would have gone with you!” 

Mary glances at her. “Are you sure?” she asks. “You don’t have to… but the company would have been nice. They clearly thought it was odd, me being there on my own. No husband in sight, no mother, no sister or friends…”

“Let me know next time,” Molly orders her, and for once it feels as though the shoe is on the other foot. “I’m coming to all of the other ones.” 

Mary looks at her in relief, then suddenly leans forward and kisses her – on the lips. Molly is startled but doesn’t want to refuse her. Probably she’s feeling a little emotional with the whole baby thing, and John having left her, she reasons. Plus pregnancy releases extra hormones, throws a person’s emotions off in the first place. The kiss goes on for a moment, and Molly finds that Mary is good at this, too. Much better than Todd. Mary pulls back and Molly wonders if she’ll be embarrassed by her sudden display of emotion, but Mary doesn’t seem to think anything odd just happened. “I’d love it if you did,” she says, meaning the appointments, and Molly reassures her again. “It’s just – doing this all on my own, with John gone – ”

“Of course,” Molly says gently. “I’ll come to everything.” 

Mary lifts up her shirt to show her growing belly. “I’m getting bigger,” she says, looking down at it. 

Molly lays her hand again the soft curve. It feels completely natural to do it. “You are,” she confirms. 

“These are getting bigger, too,” Mary says, and moves Molly’s hand to one of her breasts. 

Molly doesn’t blush or pull away. “I guess it makes sense that they would,” she says, but the words are fuzzing on her tongue. She’s never touched another woman’s breast before. She decides to say this out loud. “I’ve – never touched a breast before,” she says. “Not one that wasn’t mine, at least.” 

Mary smiles, a tricky, interesting smile. “What do you think?” she asks. 

Molly looks at her hand cupping Mary’s breast through her shirt and bra, and nods, biting her lip a little. “It’s – nice. Soft.” 

Mary finds Molly’s other hand and pulls it to her other breast, then puts both of hers on Molly’s again. “Squeeze,” she says, and when Molly does it, Mary bends forward and kisses her again, this time with tongue. 

Oh. All right, then. Molly decides to just go with it. It feels nice, and she remembers what Mary said last time about how Sherlock and John have seemingly shut themselves into their own world and barred them out. She and Mary deserve to have a bit of fun at their expense, in their absence. Who needs them, anyway? Her breath sucks in sharply through her nose as Mary’s hands push up against her small breasts, grasping them hard, and it feels _good_ – good enough that Molly can feel the heat pooling southward and her knickers growing damp, her entire torso flushing. This is fun, she thinks vaguely: having a snog in the late afternoon in the secret of Mary’s flat, no one guessing what they’re up to. It’s their own little secret, naughty and illicit – Mary is a married woman, after all, and they’re not supposed to be doing this. She thinks of slapping Sherlock in the lab and the rebellious set to his mouth in response. She wants to slap him again just at the memory of that look, plus his nasty jab about Todd after. Somehow, the thought of slapping him sends another prickle of arousal through her body and wonders what he would think if he could see them doing this. She surges forward and puts one arm around Mary’s back, her other hand still squeezing a breast, and that does it: in wordless agreement Mary pulls back and strips off her shirt and Molly follows her lead. The bras come off next and Mary bends forward to put her mouth to Molly’s tiny breast. She hated it when Todd tried this once; it made her feel like she was his wet nurse or mother or something and was slightly repulsed, but this just feels good. She’s gasping at the sensation of Mary’s mouth and lips and teeth on her nipple. 

This time it’s Molly who wants it to go further. She gets closer to Mary, pressing her bare breasts up against Mary’s and that seems to push something over some unspoken ledge. Mary puts her hand between Molly’s legs through her trousers and begins to squeeze. Tentatively Molly drops her hand to Mary’s thigh and rubs a little, hesitant to go too far. She’s curious now in a way she never was before, or never realised she was, perhaps. 

Mary stops kissing her and pulls back, her large blue eyes serious. “You’ve never done this before,” she says, and although it’s not a question, it’s still kind. 

Molly bites her lip and shakes her head. “I don’t – I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits, and then, because she can’t suppress the question, “But – you – have you – ?”

Mary shakes her curls out of her face. “Oh goodness, yes. Dozens of times. I’ve never liked labels, you know? Besides, it comes in handy to have a nice, wide skill set.” 

Molly has no idea what she means by this. “Do you mean for nursing?” she asks, though it doesn’t really matter. 

“Yes, nursing,” Mary says quickly, but something in her tone sounds amused. She doesn’t explain the amusement. Instead she says, her voice smooth and coy, “Why don’t we take the rest of our clothes off? I’ve always found that the better you know your own body and what it likes, the better your sex life will be, going ahead. And with Sherlock… you’re already going to have more experience than he does by a long shot, so one of you will need to know what they’re doing.”

Put this way, it all makes so much sense. Molly gets up and awkwardly steps out of her trousers and socks, hesitates, then removes her knickers, too. She wore nicer ones today, pink with lace and some ribbon. Mary coos over them, then steps close to her and cups between her legs. Molly breathes deeply and Mary’s eyebrows lift, a questioning sound in her throat. “No, it’s okay,” Molly says aloud, firmly. “I want you to. I’ve got to be ready. Like you said.” 

Mary hums her agreement. “Plus you have ever right to seek out your own pleasure while you’re single. You don’t owe anyone a thing. And I intend to make you feel good.”

Her middle finger has slipped in between Molly’s folds and begun to rub gently and Molly gasps. “You already are,” she says, her voice trembling, and Mary smiles and kisses her again. As they kiss, she reaches for Molly’s hand and pulls it to her body, inviting Molly to do the same thing. 

And so she does it: she touches Mary, lets Mary touch her, and it’s like nothing she’s felt or experienced before. And after, when they’ve collapsed into a sweaty, sated pile of limbs on the carpet beside the sofa, Mary is gentle and kind and they cook pasta together in the kitchen, only wearing aprons over themselves to protect their skin from hot splashes. Mary spanks her bottom affectionately every time Molly turns and exposes her bare backside to her again. It’s playful and fun and lighthearted and they don’t talk about what it ‘means’ or doesn’t mean. It’s just fun. 

As August stretches into September, Molly begins staying over sometimes. Just once or twice per week, but then somehow that becomes three or four times per week. She doesn’t talk about Mary to her colleagues, and they don’t notice when she reads one of Mary’s filthy texts in the middle of the afternoon. 

She does notice Sherlock’s ongoing absence, though, and silently despairs over it. Mary says it’s just a phase, that he’s probably taking a break from solving crimes or something, and Molly wants to believe it, so she hasn’t raised too many objections with Mary’s theory. She hasn’t seen him since the morning of the eighteenth of June. Mary said she saw him once, a week after that, but her tone was distant and she made it clear that whatever it was hadn’t been very important. She doesn’t talk about John much, but sometimes Molly can tell that she must be thinking about him, especially in relation to her pregnancy. She feels badly for Mary, abandoned by her husband only a month after their wedding, right after their honeymoon! She would slap John if she ever saw him, too. 

One afternoon when she hasn’t heard from Mary, Molly spontaneously texts her. She’s grown much bolder with Mary, encouraged by the new turn of their relationship. _Hey, beautiful. What are you up to? I’ve just finished an autopsy but I’ve been thinking of you. xx_

It takes awhile for Mary to respond, but when she does, even her text sounds depressed. _Nothing much. Got up the energy to get some groceries and now I’m just lying about._

Sometimes she’s more affectionate that than. Molly frowns a little, then writes back, _I’ll come over after work and cheer you up. Need anything in particular?_

This time the wait is shorter. Mary sends back _Just your hands on my body_ and Molly bites her lip and grins, glancing around to make sure no one saw it, but the lab is still empty. There are the cadavers in their drawers downstairs in the morgue, but they hardly count as company. She texts back _Sure I can’t bring you anything on the way?_ , then sends another right away: _PS: My hands are always at your disposal. That’s a given at this point. xx_

Mary sends a smiley face back and Molly glows. She races through the rest of the afternoon, then stops off to pick up two bottles of a non-alcoholic apple-pear cider she’s discovered that Mary likes, and on a whim, gets a sheaf of fresh flowers. Mary’s flat always seems kind of dark and lately there hasn’t been much fresh air in it. Molly cleans up a little sometimes when she’s there. Mary almost never asks if she will and only accepts it when Molly insists, gently, but obviously the help is welcome and needed. She shouldn’t have to go through this pregnancy all on her own, Molly thinks again, feeling angry with John all over again. She’s angry with both of them, withdrawing into their own world and barring everyone else out. It’s not fair. 

Mary calls back from the loo when Molly lets herself in; Mary texted and said that she was going to take a bath but that the door would be open. Molly calls back, says she won’t be a minute, then hastily puts the flowers in a vase and opens one of the bottles of cider, pouring two brimming glasses and carrying them into the loo. “Hi there,” she says, smiling. 

Mary is lying back in the bath, her elbows propped on the edge, head reclining on an inflatable pillow. She lifts her head and manages a smile, but she looks tired and sad, Molly thinks. “Hello,” she says. “What’s that?” 

Molly goes over and gives her a glass, sitting down on the edge of the tub. “It’s that cider you like,” she says. 

Mary _tsks_. “I told you not to get anything for me,” she scolds, but her eyes twinkle a little over the glass she accepts and she looks grateful. She’s grown bigger, Molly notices, the curve of her belly rounding firmly. 

“You look like a goddess,” she says, meaning it. “You’re so beautiful.” 

Mary turns her face up at her, her expression difficult to read. “Molly…” she says, and Molly gets the hint and bends over to kiss her for a long, sweet moment. “Get in here,” Mary breathes, after, and Molly nods. 

“That was the plan,” she says, feeling a bit cheeky, and she strips off her work clothes and steps carefully into the bath with Mary, inserting herself behind her and pulling Mary into her arms with a minimum of water getting sloshed over the edges. The water is still blissfully warm and she sighs in contentment into Mary’s wet hair. “That’s better,” she says, slipping her arms under Mary’s to settle her hands on Mary’s floating breasts. “Now what was that you said about wanting my hands on you?” 

Mary makes a deeply contented sound that turns into a hum of pleasure as Molly squeezes her breasts. “This is perfect. This is all I wanted all day.” 

Molly waits, hoping Mary will say something about the way Molly touches her or something, but that’s not exactly what she hears. 

“I just wanted _someone_ to touch me, almost anyone,” Mary says, a bit plaintively. “I’m a newlywed. I have _needs_. I need to be touched, made to feel loved, and today… I was feeling so abandoned. So lonely and unloved.” 

Molly feels a bit hurt, but she understands. “You’ve got me,” she reminds Mary. “I’m here. I’ll always touch you when you need it.” 

Mary breathes deeply in her arms. “You mean that, don’t you?” she asks, and her voice is a bit unsteady. This is totally unacceptable – Mary always sounds so sure of herself! 

“Of course I do!” Molly is very firm. She pulls Mary’s wet hair back with one hand and kisses her neck. “I’m right here with you.” She moves her other hand lower now, slipping her fingers into the hottest part of Mary’s body and rubbing, using technique she learned at Mary’s own fingers. She starts slowly, murmuring into Mary’s ear about how much she loves touching her, and when Mary’s thighs begin to tremble, she knows it’s close. She holds Mary through it and feels a thrill of power go through her, far more than what she ever felt in letting Todd spend himself in her – she holds Mary’s orgasm in her very hands and Mary trusts her with it – this is power of a sort that Molly has never possessed before, and it’s a bit addictive, honestly. 

She must have done well – she knows she did, but that doesn’t mean that Mary will admit it aloud – because when Mary’s recovered herself, she breathes out, “Get onto the edge of the tub again.” 

She doesn’t explain, but when that particular tone of voice is there – Molly scrambles to obey, getting herself out from behind Mary and onto the edge of the tub. “What are you – ” she starts, but Mary crawls over, pushes Molly’s knees apart, and puts her face between her legs, her tongue slipping into Molly’s wet folds and hitting gold on the first go and Molly’s breath suspends in a gasp of breath so sharp it’s nearly shock. Mary’s only done this for her twice before, something Todd never even tried, and it’s the best thing in the world. She unabashedly spreads her thighs as far as they will go and braces herself on the edge of the counter to her right, closing her eyes as Mary’s talented tongue strokes over her right where it counts, again and again… it all blurs in a wash of pleasure so that she’s hardly even aware of the sounds she’s making, or when Mary gets three fingers into her, thrusting them like a penis, and when Molly comes she nearly screams, and nearly falls off the edge of the tub, too, her legs clamping around Mary’s shoulders, and there’s a gush of wetness that says she’s just come, too, and it doesn’t even matter right now because it feels so good. 

Her legs fall limply aside and she opens her eyes to find Mary splashing water over her face, and the haze begins to fade. Mary’s expression is hard to read, her eyebrows a little high. “Well, I guess it would be safe to say that you liked that,” Mary says, her tone a bit dry. 

Molly thinks of the gush of wetness and embarrassment hits her in the aftermath. “Oh God – did I – ” She can’t even bring herself to say it, put it into words. 

Mary nods. “Right in my face,” she says, and she sounds a bit unimpressed. 

Molly puts a hand to her hot face. “Oh God, I’m – I’m so sorry!” 

Mary shakes her head and smiles a little. “Never mind. It’s fine. It’s a compliment on my technique, if anything.” 

“Your technique is _phenomenal_ ,” Molly says, her voice heartfelt. She touches Mary’s cheek and Mary allows it. “It’s my favourite thing in the world, when you do that for me. Later, if you want, I’ll do it for you.”

Mary smiles again and this time there’s some warmth in it. “Maybe later,” she agrees. “Pass me my towel, would you?” 

Molly would have liked to get back in the bath a little longer, but she supposes Mary has already been in there for awhile. “Of course.” She gets herself off the edge of the tub without slipping and reaches for the big bath sheet Mary likes to wrap around her swelling belly and passes it over. Mary takes it and affixes it around herself, striding past Molly. 

“I’ll just go and change,” she says. “We can make something to eat after.” 

“I can cook something,” Molly volunteers. 

Mary smiles back over her shoulder. “If you like,” she says. “I’m a bit too tired to cook.” 

“I don’t mind,” Molly insists, and Mary gives in. 

“All right, then,” she says. “See you in a few.” 

Left alone, Molly finds another towel and dries herself off, her body still prickling with sensitivity after the strength of her orgasm. She still feels rather embarrassed about having squirted that way – she supposes that’s what it was, after all. It’s never happened to her before, but Mary’s strong tongue rubbing directly on her that way, her fingers palm-deep inside her, just made it happen. She hopes Mary wasn’t too put off by it and grimaces at herself in the mirror. Sometimes she still feels so insecure around Mary, like the ground beneath them is always shifting and she doesn’t know whether she can trust it. It’s not a good feeling, but she knows very well that Mary is going through her own version of hell these days, with John gone and the baby growing within her. What Mary needs more than anything is support, not Molly’s whinging insecurity. 

She gets dressed and goes into the kitchen to make them something to eat. 

*** 

Mary teases her about the squirting thing off and on, enough that Molly finally asks her to stop, and admits that she’s embarrassed by it. 

“Oh darling, there’s no need to be embarrassed,” Mary says airily, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. They’re sitting on the sofa like always, reading their books rather than watching something. “It’s just something that happens.” 

“I know that,” Molly says, already feeling like she should apologise for having said anything. “It’s you who keeps mentioning it.” 

“I’m just teasing, silly,” Mary says affectionately, stroking a finger down Molly’s cheek. “Honestly, it was pretty hot.” 

Molly thinks of Mary’s face in the bath that day and thinks that her expression definitely said otherwise, but she decides not to pursue this. “Okay,” she says dubiously. 

Too dubiously. “Oh, come on,” Mary says, cajoling her. “I didn’t mean to make you feel badly. I’m sorry. Come here.” 

Molly dutifully leans over for a kiss. It’s nice, and despite herself, she feels her resistance dissolving. After, she opens her eyes and says, “You can’t just kiss your way out of everything…”

Mary’s smile is wicked. “Why not?” she asks. It’s obviously a joke. She tucks a strand of Molly’s hair behind her ear. “Listen. What if I told you a secret to balance out knowing that you’re a squirter?” 

“Don’t call it that!” Molly is mortified, but Mary just grins, lacing their fingers together. Molly’s curiosity gets the better of her. “What secret?”

Mary takes a deep breath. “It’s a big one,” she warns. “Bigger than yours, honestly.” 

Molly stares into Mary’s blue eyes. What could Mary have possibly done that would rival what she knows about Molly? “What?” she asks. “You know I won’t tell anyone.”

Mary bites her lip. “I’ve been sitting on this for months,” she admits. “It’s just so hard, not telling anyone… you promise you won’t say a word? To anyone?” 

“I promise,” Molly says firmly. “What is it?” 

Mary looks into her eyes for a long moment, as though weighing her, then says, “John is not the baby’s father.” 

Shock hits like a wall, and Molly reels, her entire face condensing into disbelief. “ _What?!_ she demands. “What do you mean?” 

“Exactly that. He’s not the father,” Mary says quietly, but her voice is very steady. 

Molly can hardly believe what she’s hearing. “Then who – ”

“David.” 

Molly has to wrack her brain, but remembers the short, blond man from the wedding. “But when – how did you – ”

Mary sighs and looks down at their joined fingers. “You’ll think less of me for this. I know you will. But maybe you’ll understand, I don’t know…”

She trails off and Molly struggles to be fair about this. She doesn’t know the circumstances yet, after all. “Let me try,” she says softly. “I’d like to understand.” 

Mary glances at her, then says abruptly, “Have you ever been jealous of Sherlock and John? How close they are?” 

A visceral feeling of combined resentment and anger twists its way up through Molly’s gut before a verbal response forms itself. “Yes,” she says tersely. “All the time.”

Mary makes a helpless gesture. “Sometimes I felt like I could never compete with it, whether or not I had John’s ring on my finger. He loved me – he did, you know. He all but dove at the chance when I offered him one. But then Sherlock came back, and who could ever get closer to John than Sherlock, or to Sherlock than John? It’s toxic, if you want my opinion. They’re far too close. Honestly, I have no idea what their precise dynamic is. For all I know, they’ve been fucking each other’s brains out all summer and autumn.” 

A mental image of Sherlock and John together that way flashes through her mind and Molly feels as though she’s going to be ill. “But you said – you thought that Sherlock is – inexperienced,” she manages to get out around the red haze filling her mouth and eyes. 

“I suspect he probably is,” Mary admits. “I just don’t know. But the fact is that they’re too close – I mean, I’m bloody married to John and I can’t even say with confidence that I’m sure that he isn’t fucking Sherlock, hasn’t been all along, since the day Sherlock got back. Well, the day after. I don’t even know. But I hate it. I _hate_ it.” 

Molly nods. “I completely understand that,” she says, and means it. The red haze stays, thickening in her throat. “So David – was that – I don’t know, revenge?” 

Mary shakes her head a little, but doesn’t deny it, still looking down. “They were on case after case, completely ignoring me. I could barely get John to pay attention to me long enough to plan our wedding. To be fair, Sherlock could barely get his attention for that, either. Sherlock did about ninety percent of our wedding planning, if you want to know. Hardly a commendation to his heterosexuality, but what do I know. So I blatantly encouraged them to go off on another one. It was a moment of weakness. Sherlock had just finished telling me that half my wedding guests hate me – he even made a list, and it was double-sided – and so when they left, I texted David to come over and I fucked him in John’s old bed at Baker Street.” She shakes her head again, her lips pursing. “It was stupid. So stupid. But that one time… and here I am. John and I hadn’t even talked about kids, and suddenly there’s Sherlock announcing that I’m pregnant to the whole world at the wedding. John and I always used condoms.” 

“Do you think he suspects?” Molly asks, still feeling blindsided by this. 

Mary demurs. “I doubt it. We fought about it once on the honeymoon but I put a quick end to that. He kept insisting that we should have talked about it first and I just said that he knows as well as I do that no method of contraception is risk-free and that it hadn’t been my plan, either. I will get him back, you know, and when the baby is born, that’s what will fix this.” 

Molly feels slightly odd, hearing this. Of course she hopes for Mary’s sake that John will come back to her, but… if and when he does, what will that mean for the two of them? Will Mary cast her aside? Never mind, she tells herself firmly. This is about Mary, not her. “I understand,” she says, making her voice warm. “Completely. About John and Sherlock – you’re right. They _are_ too close, and I hate it, too.” There: she’s said it out loud at last. 

Mary looks at her steadily for a long time, her blue eyes focused intently on Molly’s. Then she says, “There’s an obvious solution, you know. If we ever want those men back where they belong, with us, then we’ve got to put an end to that friendship. It’s got to be destroyed beyond salvation.” Her eyes are hard and cold. “Are you with me?” 

Molly sees them together again in her mind’s eye, coupling like animals in the wild, and the sight produces an uglier feeling in her than she’s ever felt before. Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “Yes,” she says, and hears her voice come out as cold as Mary’s. “Completely.” 

*** 

After Christmas, everything changes. 

Mary keeps reassuring her that everything is going to plan – that is, when Molly even sees her. Mary explains that now that John has come back, obviously Molly can’t be hanging about all the time. Molly invites Mary to come to her flat, but Mary only comes once or twice, surreptitiously picking cat hairs off her shirt and trying to pretend that she doesn’t mind being there. It felt odd having Mary there in her own bed, too. Molly can’t say why, but it just felt like a bit of an invasion. Todd always preferred that she come to his place, too, so perhaps it just feels like her own, private space. Apart from that one time, Mary stops that part of their friendship, too. She cites her pregnancy, that she’s always too tired, but she’s stopped kissing Molly, too. 

She’s over there at Mary’s flat one day, John pecking moodily at his laptop with both his index fingers, Mary slicing carrots at the kitchen counter while Molly washes a few dishes, just to give Mary a hand. John could certainly do them, she thinks, hating him, resenting him being here in a space that she’s occupied quite comfortably for the past six months now. But he seems content to ignore them both, despite Mary’s light chatter connecting them in their separate rooms. Molly looks at Mary’s profile for a long moment and opens her mouth to speak, but she doesn’t know what to say. 

Mary feels it and glances at her, then makes a questioning sound under her breath. 

Molly looks at the door leading to the sitting room and thinks that she can’t say it with John listening in. She takes out her phone and types _I miss you_ and shows it to Mary. 

Mary reads it, then makes a sympathetic, pouting face at her, her forehead crinkling up. 

Molly frowns and types again. _I miss touching you_

Mary’s face becomes wary and she, too, glances toward the sitting room. “I know,” she says, her voice low. “But this is how it is for now.” 

Molly feels brushed off by Mary’s cold logic. She types again, feeling petulant and more than a little angry now. _You never kiss me anymore._

Mary sighs, then raises her voice so that John will hear it clearly and says, “So, I meant to show you the latest test results when you asked earlier but I left them in the bedroom. Come and have a quick look. The stew can wait.” 

“Okay,” Molly says for John’s benefit, and she follows Mary down the short corridor leading to the bedroom. 

Mary closes the door behind Molly, then pushes her up against it, kissing her hard, harder than Molly would like, and tears spring unwillingly to her eyes. Mary doesn’t stop kissing her, her thumbs already wiping the tears away. She yanks Molly’s jumper up and kisses her tiny breasts through her bra, her fingers pressed to Molly’s mouth to keep her silent. She straightens up again with difficulty, the weight of her belly making her movements ponderous. She says, her hands still holding Molly by the face, “I know, darling, I know. But you can’t go pulling this stuff on me. You’ve got to be stronger than that. Any drama between us and the entire jig is up. I need you to play this part and play it well. Do you understand?” 

Molly feels as though she’s been slapped, but it makes sense. She agreed to this plan, and Mary says it’s working so far. Molly still hasn’t seen Sherlock at all or heard a word from him, but Mary assures her that this will change. She nods, tears still slipping down her cheeks, and Mary’s face softens and she kisses Molly again, nicely this time. “I’m sorry,” Molly says after, her eyes opening slowly. 

Mary shakes her head, as though to say that the apology is unnecessary. “I’m about to drop this baby any day now,” she says. “I can’t afford to be compromised right now. You’ve got to be a rock, do you understand? We’ll get this whole thing sorted. Meanwhile, we’re buddies and that’s it. You especially can’t go pulling stunts like this right under John’s nose! He’s thick but he’s also lived with a detective for a bunch of years. He’s more observant than you might think.” 

Molly nods. “Right. Yeah. I get it. Sorry again.” 

Mary smiles now. “Cheer up,” she orders. “We’re just some friends having dinner together. You’re here helping us out because of my condition. That’s all John ever need know. He can have his secrets and I’ll have mine.”

Molly nods again and makes herself smile. “Okay.” 

Mary smiles back, and it looks a little relieved, but there’s still something sharp in the lines between her eyes, something that says that she’s irritated that Molly made her worry this way. “It will get better,” she says, and it’s obviously meant to reassure Molly, but it’s too vague. 

She searches Mary’s eyes. “You mean… when things with you and John settle down,” she tries, wondering if Mary has forgotten the bit about how Sherlock was supposed to fall in line, too. If Mary has forgotten about her in general, she supposes. 

Mary nods, but her eyes are probing, not missing anything. “Yes. And when Sherlock comes around, obviously,” she says. “He will, you know.” 

Molly is of two minds about this, but decides not to say so. “And you and I… that was all just for fun, just us entertaining ourselves while we waited,” she says. “It – didn’t mean anything.” 

She’s too insecure and it’s all right there in her voice. Mary’s eyes go soft. “Oh darling,” she says, putting her hands on Molly’s face again. “It never meant nothing. Not to me, at any rate. I believe very strongly that a person can care very deeply about more than one person at a time. Look at me and David. Some part of that will never die, no matter how much I love John.” 

She hasn’t come out and said it, though, said that it’s the same thing with them. Molly opens her mouth to ask, but stops, hesitating over whether or not she should. 

Mary catches it, of course. “Yes, silly, of course I care about you, too,” she says impatiently, as though frustrated that Molly would even ask, though she didn’t. She bends forward and kisses Molly thoroughly around the intrusion of her belly, then pulls back and shakes her head. “Now stop this,” she orders. “Stop yanking me around by my chain. It’s not fair. If we’re going to keep being friends, then I need you to stand by me in the way that I need you to right now. I can’t handle drama in my state, and everything else is too precarious. I need to know that I can count on you. Can I?” 

Her gaze is sharp. Molly bites her lip and nods. “Yes,” she says, trying to make her voice come out firmly. “You can. I’m sorry.” 

Mary nods once, the lines around her rosebud mouth tight. “Good,” she says, and walks out of the room. 

Molly takes a moment to compose herself, then puts on her game face and follows Mary back to the kitchen. 

*** 

Life goes on, somehow. The months slip nightmarishly by and Molly just tries not to think about it. Nothing is working out the way Mary said it would, but then, she rarely even sees Mary these days. She babysits a lot and it’s her main contact with Mary. Rosie is sweet and Molly loves watching her grow and change day after day. She had hoped that Sherlock would take more of an interest in Rosie. She’s tried so hard to kindle some sort of fatherly instinct in him by pointing out Rosie’s most recent changes and achievements when she goes to Baker Street to pick her up, but Sherlock’s interest seems to be fleeting and based along strictly scientific lines – that, or anything about her that seems to remind him of John. Molly has to grind her teeth together and remind herself that she made Mary a promise to never reveal Rosie’s true parentage whenever Sherlock says something like this, ironically completely unaware of how unscientific it makes him sound. 

Now that Mary has planted the idea of how he may feel about John, what they might have done together, she finds she cannot eradicate it, and she hates it. If that’s the reason why Mary’s plan is failing, at least where she and Sherlock are concerned, then she hates it all the more. They could have been so perfect together, and obviously John isn’t interested, since he’s back with Mary, having successfully pushed Molly out of that flat with his return. Why hasn’t Sherlock done what she did and looked elsewhere for comfort in his newfound solitude? She’s right there, if he would only open his beautiful blue eyes to see her for once! 

But so far he hasn’t, so Molly plods through her days with dreary bleakness. 

One day something strange happens: John calls. Molly sees his name on her mobile and frowns. Why is John phoning her? She answers cautiously. “Hello?” 

“Molly,” John says, his voice sounding gritty and strained. “How are you?” 

“Fine,” Molly says, not elaborating. “How are you?”

“Er…” John trails off, then evidently decides to ignore the question. “Look, I was wondering if you might be available to take Rosie for a bit. Maybe a few days. I know you work, but… it seems she’s a bit much for Mrs Hudson at night, and our neighbour is out of town… it’s rather urgent.”

Molly keeps her voice rather cool. “What about Sherlock?” she asks, in a pointed reminder that Sherlock is also one of Rosie’s godparents and is supposed to be doing more along these lines. 

“He can’t. He’s busy with the same thing I’m busy with,” John says, which doesn’t explain anything. 

Molly sighs. “How long do you want me to take her for, exactly?” 

John sounds vague. “I’m not sure… probably about forty-eight hours, but there could be trouble.” 

“Where’s Mary?” Molly asks, trying very hard to keep any edge out of her voice. 

“I don’t know.” John’s voice is flat. 

“What?” Molly feels her face condensing into confusion. “What do you mean, you don’t know? She’s your wife!” 

“I’m well aware of that fact,” John says tersely. “She’s run off, all right? Sherlock and I are going to find her and bring her back. Can you take Rosie or not?” 

Molly’s mouth is open, and she realises she’s as indignant as John is angry. Mary has left town, apparently, and without so much as a word to her. “Yes, I can take her,” she says. “I’ll – I’ll use some vacation time. They owe me for all the overtime, anyway.” 

“Great,” John says with relief. “I’ll be over with her in half an hour, then.” 

It takes three days in the end, and John is the one who comes to collect Rosie again, to Molly’s disappointment. Mary owes her an explanation for this, and she isn’t about to forget it! She determinedly ignores Mary, doesn’t text or call, and pointedly waits for Mary to get in touch first. 

She does. It only takes four days in the end. “Hello darling,” she says breezily. “Sorry it’s been awhile. I was out of town.” 

“Yes, so I heard,” Molly says, trying to keep her voice even, though she’s simultaneously glad to hear Mary’s voice. 

“Yes, I know you did,” Mary says, and just like that, she sounds as tired as John did when he came to get Rosie. “Look: I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving. I had no time. That’s the truth. I barely even told _John_ that I was going. I left my own daughter behind – that’s how urgent it was.” 

Molly feels herself softening a little. “What’s going on? Is everything all right?” 

“It will be,” Mary says, which doesn’t tell her anything. “Listen: it’s time to move into a new phase of the plan. I know it hasn’t been working. This time it’s just gone too far, and we need to take a rather drastic measure. Are you still with me on this?” 

Molly doesn’t know what Mary means with her vague reference to _it’s just gone too far_ , but she agrees. “Yes,” she says firmly. “Definitely.” 

“I’m coming over,” Mary says abruptly, and hangs up. 

Molly looks at her phone to confirm the end of the call, frowning, then puts it down to wait for Mary to arrive. 

*** 

It only takes her fifteen minutes to cross the city. She must be better than John at hailing taxis, Molly thinks meanly, then remembers that John had a baby with him when he did it. She opens the door and stands back to let Mary in. 

Mary walks past her, her hands in her coat pockets. She doesn’t take her things off or sit down. Instead, she stops several metres away and turns to face Molly, her face very serious. “I need to die,” she says. 

Molly blinks. “Whoa, what?” she asks, feeling like she’s missed a step somewhere. She gives a laugh that sounds as uncertain as it is. “What are you talking about?” 

“Not for real,” Mary says, rolling her eyes a little. “I need to fake my death. I need for both John and Sherlock to think it’s real. And I need them both to think that it was Sherlock’s fault. That part will be easy enough. Have I ever told you about Vivian Norbury? Old colleague of mine. No? Never mind, it’s not important. Have you ever used a fake blood packet?”

Molly frowns. “No, why would I have? I’m a pathologist, not – ”

“It’s fine, they’re easy enough to set up,” Mary interrupts, overriding her. “We’re going to do it tomorrow night. But there are some other things I need. We need to make some DVDs.” 

Molly isn’t following at all. “DVDs – Mary, what – I don’t – what’s going on here?” 

Mary comes over, and something in the way she moves puts Molly in mind of a tiger stalking about its cage, restless and impatient, but her voice is gentle when she speaks. “This is where I need your help the most,” she says. “And it’s for your benefit, too: I’m going to die. John will blame Sherlock and cut him off forever. Sherlock will fall into despair and turn to you at last. Their friendship will be shattered by this. I intend to make very certain of that.” 

At this very moment, Molly believes her. “Good,” she says, unwittingly thinking of them together again, the image that haunts her mind when she can’t sleep. “That’s exactly what I want. So what are we going to do?” 

Mary glows at her. “Do you still have that video equipment of your cousin’s that we made that naughty video on once?” 

Molly feels herself blushing to remember that. She’d had a little too much rosé and it was one of the few times they’d actually been here, at her place. “Yes, it’s upstairs,” she says. “Are we making the DVDs here?” 

Mary looks around. “Yes, maybe against that wall,” she says, pointing. “It’s nice and neutral. No one will be able to tell where it is.” 

Molly looks at the beige wallpaper and the window with the plain blinds and thinks that not even Sherlock could identify the location if pressed, and nods. “Okay,” she says. “Just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.” 

Mary quirks an eyebrow at her. “I’ll make it worth your while,” she promises, but then her face falls. “Oh Molly… he doesn’t love me anymore, you know. He came right out and said it, when they came to find me. I’ve tried everything to make it work, but he just doesn’t love me anymore. It’s so hard.” 

Molly goes to Mary and puts her arms around her. “I’m sorry,” she says into Mary’s curls. “He’s a bastard. He doesn’t deserve you.” 

Mary hugs back, sounding forlorn. “There’s no point in staying now. It’s hopeless. And it’s over. The only thing left now is revenge.” 

Molly understands. “And Rosie?” she asks. 

Mary shakes her head. “If I fake my death, I’ll have to leave her with John, at least for a little while. You’ll look after her, won’t you? Make sure she’s all right? I don’t know how John will cope… I want him to suffer, you know. I want him to blame himself after he’s finished blaming Sherlock. I want him to know that he didn’t do enough, that he should have loved me more, that he messed the whole thing up.”

Molly nods. “He really did,” she offers. “And of course I’ll make sure that Rosie’s looked after, until you come back for her.” 

Mary’s arms squeeze tighter. “Thank you,” she whispers, and Molly hugs back. 

“Of course,” she says. “Anything.” 

Mary pulls back and smiles at her, her eyes brilliantly blue. “There’s one other thing,” she says. “I’ll need you to write a letter.”

Molly searches her eyes. “A letter?” she asks. “To who?” 

“Whom,” Mary corrects her. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

*** 

It works, or at least, it seems to at first. 

After they made the DVDs, Mary led Molly to her own bed and reduced her to a panting, helpless mess, then waited until she recovered and they went again, and Molly was in heaven. Then they got dressed, giggling together like they used to before, then ordered in for dinner and made a schedule for when Molly was to post each DVD. 

The faked death goes perfectly, exactly to plan. Mary’s people were all in place to bring her out of the aquarium and to the hearse, where they promptly drove her to Molly’s lab. Molly doesn’t know where Mary hired these people, but she knows better than to question Mary’s plan. 

John turned on Sherlock the instant Mary died, Mary reported, not even letting Sherlock take a step toward them.

“He made the most unholy noise,” Mary said after, changing into clean clothes. “John, I mean. You should have heard it! I can’t even describe it.” 

“So the blame thing is working, then,” Molly said, running cold water to rinse out Mary’s bloodied clothes. 

“Oh, you can just throw those away,” Mary said. “And yes, I’d say so. So: now I hide. You know where to reach me if you really need to, but don’t use that number unless it’s a real emergency, all right?”

“Right,” Molly said, watching Mary lace up her boots. It occurred to her then that there was a lot she didn’t know about Mary, despite everything that happened between them. She didn’t know that Mary had people working for her, or whatever was happening that made her to decide she needed to leave, and without Rosie, too. “I suppose I can’t ask where you’re going, or how long you’re planning to stay away.” 

“The less you know, the better,” Mary said briefly. “If Sherlock were to figure it out… he could be quite brutal if he wanted to, you know. And if he thinks I hurt his beloved John… but this should fix that. John won’t want to have anything to do with him now, and Sherlock will finally figure out that it’s truly over between them and find his way to you at last. He will, you know. It will just hit him in the face one day and he’ll get all the way there very quickly. You will give him the letter, won’t you? That will make him all the more likely to turn to you once it destroys him. You’ll be the shoulder he comes to, to cry on.” 

“I’ll give it to him,” Molly vowed. “You predicted he’ll come by to ask about Rosie, but really as a ruse to try to see John.” 

“Exactly,” Mary confirmed. “He’s completely transparent.” She straightened up, zipping the unfamiliar jacket. “Well then: I’m off. Come and kiss me goodbye.” 

Molly crossed the lab to her. “Goodbye for now,” she reminded Mary. “You’ll be back.” 

“As soon as I’m able,” Mary promised, and they kissed, all too briefly. And then Mary was gone. 

Now it’s been four days and Molly is there at the flat. John isn’t there. He just asked her to come and stay with Rosie, and she’s got no idea where he’s gone. She’s been waiting for Sherlock to come as Mary said he would, and that night, he does. He rings the bell at the garden door and she comes to answer it with Rosie in her arms, hoping to get him to see her as the potential mother of his future children, hoping to leave that image in his mind. 

He smiles a little at the baby, rather than her, and nods. Everything about him speaks of uncertainty, of an awkward lack of surety regarding his welcome. 

“Hi,” Molly says softly. 

Sherlock nods again, in lieu of a greeting. “I just… wondered how things were going. And if there was anything I could do.” 

Right on cue. Molly reaches into her pocket and takes out the envelope. “It’s, er, it’s from John,” she says. 

Sherlock takes the envelope and looks down at it, shielding his eyes from her. “Right.”

“You don’t need to read it now,” Molly assures him quickly. She knows that this letter will devastate him, if he believes that it truly is from John, and much as she wants their friendship to die a swift death, it still hurts to do this to him. Sherlock looks up at her, not comprehending, so she does it, twists the knife to make him understand. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. He says – John said if you were to come round asking after him, offering to help…”

She trails off as though uncertain of herself, but this one time, it’s an act. Sherlock’s eyes are focused intensely on her for once. “Yes?” he prompts, the tension in his voice betraying him. 

She goes on, as though reluctantly. “He… said he’d r – that he’d rather have anyone but you. Anyone.” 

She underscores the final word with some weight, and watches it crash into him like a wreaking ball. Something visibly dies in his eyes and he blinks and compresses his lips. Now for the final blow: Molly turns and goes back inside, shutting the door and leaving Sherlock standing foolishly alone on the step. She watches through the peephole as he turns and walks away, stowing the envelope carefully in his coat pocket as if it contains a bomb. 

They’re both gone now: Mary and Sherlock. Tears burning in her eyes, Molly sinks down at the kitchen table with Rosie still in her arms and wonders whether either of them will ever come back to her. 

*** 

Recrimination leaves a deafening silence in its wake. 

The ceiling is hazy through the cloud of smoke obscuring it. Sherlock lies on the sofa as though pinned to it by a giant iron boot, unable to move. His most recent cigarette is still smoking in the saucer on the coffee table where he left it, smouldering itself out. It doesn’t matter. Beside it on the coffee table is the envelope: the hated, dreaded, dreadful envelope. He doesn’t need to read the letter again. Its words have lodged themselves deep into his brain, scoring the tissue with their impact, an afterimage of black following the shock of their reading. He will never need to read it again: he will never forget a word of it. 

_Sherlock,_

_There have always been times in the history of our friendship when_  
_I’ve wondered if I was crazy to stick it out, put up with everything_  
_you’ve put me through. I made allowances because I thought you_  
_were a genius, because it usually worked out in the end. But I know_  
_now that I was wrong. I always gave you second chances, always_  
_gave you the benefit of the doubt. I was wrong. I was an idiot for_  
_standing by you and defending you when everyone else had turned_  
_against you. I’ve finally learned my lesson: I got it wrong. And I was_  
_wrong to think that you would ever put your own arrogance aside long_  
_enough to consider anyone else. It was a mistake. It cost me Mary._  
_She was my entire world in a way that you can never understand._  
_Maybe you never wanted to believe that someone could be so much_  
_more important to me than you are, but she was. You are as much to_  
_blame for her death as the woman who pulled the trigger. You made us_  
_a vow, and you failed to uphold it. This is beyond forgiveness. You_  
_failed us, all three of us. I was so wrong about you. I regret having ever_  
_met you in the first place. I never want to see your face again. I trust_  
_I’ve made myself clear, Sherlock. This is the end._

And below it, a scrawl in ink: 

_John H. Watson_

The _H._ is a taunt, a reminder of how long it took Sherlock to uncover the secret of John’s elusive middle name, a reminder of the barrier of secrecy that John kept from him for so long. 

Thinking about the _H._ spares him from thinking about any of the rest of it. His brain probes tentatively out to explore, prod, assess damage, and the words of John’s letter are there at every turn, stinging and bruising at every impact, causing his thoughts to shrink away from every part of it. 

He hadn’t known. He truly had not grasped that John cared for Mary as much as he did. He realises now that some part of him had always believed on some level that it was a bit of a façade, that John had married Mary more or less as a ‘safe’ option, as the accepted thing to do, but that somewhere beneath that, in some secret, unacknowledged place, John might have felt something for him. Everything that had existed between them, unspoken, throughout the whole of their original year and a half of living together, but particularly after the advent of The Woman: Sherlock had felt that it was intertwined with whatever else was causing the tension between them. Some part of him had firmly believed that any life John could have found apart from him, from _them_ , was only half a life, and that included the part involving Mary. He’d really thought that John was only hiding the truth from himself, that whatever existed between the two of them was the core of both their lives. He almost made reference to John’s action having been something of a mere gesture the day they went to Magnussen’s studio as they discussed his own ruse concerning Janine: _I’m not going to marry her, obviously – there’s only so far you can go!_

He’d also thought, more than once, that John was growing restless and unhappy in the marriage. Almost from the very start, in fact. Even the way they fought sometimes before they were married made him wonder: Mary’s words were teasing and playful, but John’s rarely were. Sherlock heard, rather, the sharpness of someone nearly at the end of his line. Even he could recognise John’s warning signals of having had just about as much as he cared to handle, yet Mary would press on, anyway, then react with hurt and sarcasm if and when John lashed out. It always took him longer to lose his temper with Mary than it ever had with Sherlock, but Sherlock had thought that perhaps that was merely his chivalry coming out.

As for their relationship existing merely as a harmless fiction that all parties involved were eager to believe, it stopped being that the day Mary shot Sherlock. After that, Sherlock had thought – foolishly, he realises now – that it could very well be the end of John’s ill-conceived marriage. He welcomed it, yet he had to keep John safe until he recovered sufficiently from Mary’s wrath, should she become violent. He thought that John would stay with him, both in the hospital, then at Baker Street for the duration of his recovery, and he had. He’d let himself hope that it would last. 

It didn’t. After the six weeks in hospital recovering from the further damage he’d done to himself in his escape the night of the confrontation in Leinster Gardens, Sherlock had gone home, John supporting him the entire way. He’d never come out and said he was going to stay, or for how long. Somehow it just seemed to be the unspoken agreement. They didn’t discuss Mary or the shot or anything else about her, and Sherlock was content to consider the entire subject taboo. Only he’d wondered, sometimes, what John was thinking regarding all of it, wondered if John had finally come to the conclusion that the entire thing was a mistake. Perhaps he never could, because of the child. Sherlock didn’t particularly want to discuss it, but he was curious. They’d fallen into a routine of comfortable domesticity once again, but there was always a certain quietness in everything they did. Sometimes their silences would become almost unbearably eloquent in the weight of what was not being said, and it made Sherlock uneasy. For all that he wished that it could somehow just happen one day, like magic, there was a restlessness in John’s eyes that made him believe that it would not. John was too conflicted, too torn between whatever he was thinking about Mary and the fact of his given word. If he hadn’t had that look in his eyes, there were almost times when Sherlock might have tried, probed as delicately as he knew how around the topic in hopes that John would cotton on and pick up the thread from him, put it all out there: what he felt, how much he cared, everything that they had never been able to say the first time around. 

But the look in his eyes persisted, so finally one evening in December, Sherlock broached the topic of John’s reconciliation with Mary. He was matter-of-fact about it, mentioned the baby and said that John had better do it sooner rather than later, while Mary was still willing to have him back, and John had not contradicted him. Instead, he’d looked down at his hands, twisted the ring on his fourth finger, and nodded. Said he knew that he had to go back. Sherlock had waited, hoping to hear him say that he didn’t want to, but John didn’t say it. Sherlock even gave it a moment, just in case, but when the words didn’t come, he said, brusquely, _Best not leave it too long, then_ , and John had agreed. _I have a responsibility_ , he’d said heavily. _And no matter what she’s done… maybe I have to give her a second chance._

Sherlock had bit back his instinctive dismay and made a neutral sound instead. _Invite her to Christmas dinner at my parents’, then_ , he’d said, and shaken out the leaves of the newspaper in front of his face again to hide his burning cheeks. Later, when John had gone up to bed, Sherlock put the paper aside and sat up the rest of the night, watching the fire die out, some fire of hope dying out within him at the same time and leaving him cold. It was too good to last. John will never belong to him, never would have stayed. 

The letter makes that clear now. The foundation of their friendship was flawed from the start. John never trusted him, barely even liked him, it seems, and everything that Sherlock did, every opportunity he had, he gave John all the more reason not to trust him or like him. The faith John professed to have in Sherlock during the time of his public disgrace was misguided and temporary. John does not and did not ever trust him, and having provoked Norbury to anger, anger that resulted in Mary’s death, was the final nail in the coffin: John never wants to see him again. John hates him, maybe hated him all along. 

There are other things to think about, important things, and Sherlock attempts to distract himself from his crushing misery long enough to contemplate these: Mary’s posthumous DVD, for instance. Sherlock finds it odd that it arrived precisely when it did. Did she have some sort of arrangement with the post office or something? Some automatic trigger set up to post the DVD to Baker Street upon her death? It might be an intriguing conundrum under other circumstances, at the moment Sherlock can muster little more than a flicker of interest. He thinks about it for a long time, then weighs his choices: if he is to save John, then he will need to provoke quite a bit of danger to distract John out of his own despair and into rescue mode.

The slide into narcotics is simultaneously planned, yet less controlled than it should be, but then, Mary _did_ tell him to send himself to hell. He’s there already, he thinks irritably one day as he waits for Billy to finish fussing with the finer details of the cocktail. A cup of tea: it sounds so much better that way. Just a simple panacea to take off the edge, dear, nothing to worry about. 

He spirals into the dark. Theory becomes case, case becomes obsession, and in the midst of it all, Culverton Smith’s daughter appears. He remembers all of it the way one remembers a dream, some parts sliding away into oblivion while others stand out in razor-sharp detail. He deduces the gun, its purpose, the carelessness of the soaked hem of her clothing, and his mind puts together a far too easily-guessed conclusion: suicidal. Conclusion? Recognition, rather. Never mind. He remembers the long-ago comfort of chips and takes her to the stand that opened around the corner some weeks ago. They’re not as good as Chris’ were, but they’re hot and salty and it’s something. He’s lost John for good, but the world still has chips. Yes, that’s something. 

He babbles away at Faith Smith as they walk and loses the thread of what he’s saying multiple times over, the tea taking effect and speeding his words to the point of incoherence. _Your life is not your own: get your hands off it!_ he remembers saying, more than once that evening. He doesn’t know where the notion comes from, but later, upon examination, he knows it to be true. His life belongs to John, whether or not John has accepted it. Everything that he is belongs to John, if only John would take it. He would weave together the fibres of his entire existence into a carpet for John to walk on, if only he knew how. He lies on the dusty carpet at Baker Street and wonders how he got home, and ponders existence as a carpet. He would give everything to John without question. He owes John more than he can ever pay; therefore if John walked in and stated his intention to make himself a coat of Sherlock’s skin, Sherlock would submit meekly and hope it satisfied some small part of the debt. He thinks about skin coats and cereal and serial killers and a single-word clue, the sitting room spiralling out of control around him, words of all angles shattering the air, written on the walls, and Culverton Smith is everywhere, his horrid little face watching Sherlock from every side. He is manic, never certain whether he’s supine or flying around the room. Meaning loses reference; references loses substance; substance loses connection to the material, the material becoming immaterial… 

And then one day, Mrs Hudson: something about a cup of tea and then he finds himself handcuffed and bundled into the boot of her car, aided and abetted by café workers from downstairs. He hears her sharp voice saying something about Billy clearing out the kitchen, illegal substances, but at least he’s stocked enough for another hit or two. She’s taking him to John. Somehow he already knows that. Right, it’s part of the plan, not that she knows that. It’s a bad idea: John never wants to see him again. He said, in his letter. This is not going to go well. But it’s time, time for John to see him this way, time for John to think that he’s lost control, that he’s outmatched by Culverton Smith in his state, that he needs saving. It’s time. 

Seeing John’s face when the lid of the boot opens is as much of a shock as the daylight in his eyes. The entire day that follows goes more or less precisely as he planned it, as he expected it, Molly’s angry, tearful accusations sliding off him without any impact. (What’s she so invested for, anyway? It doesn’t make any sense.) It’s John’s sharpness, John’s closed, tense face, that matters. Of course, it has to get worse: he makes an error. Unexpected, that. Rather awful. Somewhere in there, he loses control, and finds himself bleeding on the floor of the hospital, John’s furious face looming over him, his fists clenched. 

It hurts more than he predicted it would, even though he fully expected it, John’s _Yes, you did_ in answer to Sherlock’s quiet assertion that he killed Mary. John leaves him there, as expected, returning later with his cane. Sherlock is unconscious for that part, but wakes with Smith watching him. _Come on, John. Put it together now._ The sequence begins, Smith taunting him, explaining, confessing. Luckily the bag has already been switched out; he’s only in danger if Smith decides to strangle him. 

“Say it again,” Smith orders. 

He isn’t high now and suddenly the truth of his statement has become poignantly clear. “I don’t want to die.” Not now. Not yet. He wants the chance to tell John the truth, as least. Even if it’s completely unwelcome. He didn’t say it when they very nearly sent him to die in Serbia. He saw the unwillingness to hear it in John’s eyes, and spared him at the last second. Spared them both, really. But now Sherlock discovers a profound need to say it, just the once. _I love you._ The forever unspoken words, kept by necessity a secret. He does not want to die without finding some chance, some ideal moment wherein he could tell John at last. 

There’s a commotion in the corridor: John has come. Sherlock struggles for breath with Smith’s hands around his throat, black spots appearing in his vision, and waits for John to break down the door. 

*** 

He nearly says it a few days later. John is there, technically supervising him for drug use, but he’s there. The supervision is unnecessary, though the withdrawal is unpleasant: the point is that the plan worked, if only just. It successfully brought John out of his pit of despair and restored them to speaking terms, but everything about John’s demeanour communicates his reluctance at being there, the fact that nothing he said in the letter has changed. They are not friends, not in the traditional sense. But perhaps John might consider working with him again sometime. He needs the adrenaline fix. It’s something, something he could do for John. There’s nothing else Sherlock can even offer. 

John admits that Mary’s death was not his fault, which is almost shocking in its graciousness. Sherlock is careful not to overreact. John turns to leave, and then – of all inopportune moments, The Woman chooses that particular moment to text him a _Happy birthday! xx_ , and John turns back in suspicion, his fists flexing and releasing. 

Sherlock is inwardly rather pleased: John is still jealous of her, then. He really had not elaborated his memory of John’s previous reactions to her to suit his own theories and wishes. The upshot is that John correctly deduces his birthday and they go out for cake rather than John leaving. It’s something. It’s a lot, Sherlock reflects later, looking up at the ceiling above his bed. He’s promised to come back in the morning, to supervise, but he said something about going out for brunch if Sherlock wants to pay. Of course he’ll pay: he would pay any amount of money to do anything with John. 

And slowly, things improve. There’s an entire week of John thawing, warming to him, and miraculously, laughter returns to them, too. Sherlock shivers the first time he hears John laugh again, his own notwithstanding, and hopes that John won’t notice. He must keep it all under strict wraps if he doesn’t want to lose this. He almost said it again on his birthday, almost told John that John is the one person alive who makes him the best version of himself, that he will never need anyone but John and that no one ever will ever do. He still wants to say it all, but caution has returned with sobriety. He can feel how tenuous everything still is between them. Once lost, trust can never be rebuilt. He must accept this fact. And John has never trusted him. His letter made that quite clear. 

But even within a week, things improve. John is there more often than not, sometimes with Rosie, but mostly without her. When Sherlock asks distantly about her, John tells him about alternating Rosie between his neighbour, Mrs Hudson, and Molly. Sherlock carefully does not ask anything too complex, cherishing this new truce between them. 

And then: Eurus. 

She comes into their life like an atomic bomb, bringing devastation of every kind. Later, when all the dust has settled, Sherlock remembers the patience bomb and John not thinking of Rosie, but of them, of their survival and nothing else. He remembers Mycroft’s exposed weakness, and feeling genuine regret at the thought of having to shoot him, but it’s the only option Sherlock would ever contemplate and he and Mycroft both know it, even if John doesn’t. 

And then Molly. What Eurus forces him to do is brutal. He tries to be gentle, tries to couch it as a request for her help. He has no desire to expose her this way, made her a tool for his disturbed sister’s machinations and cruelty. Molly doesn’t deserve that. But Molly is too resistant in spite of her transparent vulnerability as she is unwittingly observed by Eurus’ cameras. He hears himself pleading with her in the name of their friendship, but she treats him with suspicion, her eyes rimmed in red. (Why has she been crying? Was it because of him? Sherlock has no idea.) He has to argue with her over saying the words, to the point of her turning it back on him, demanding that he say it first. The time is running out. He has to say it, and sound as though he genuinely means it. 

He opens his mouth, forcing the first word out, but the others stick in his throat. He cannot make himself say these words that he does not mean. Not knowing what devastation they will cause, and not in front of John. 

Suddenly it becomes clear. He can see John in the reflection of the darkened glass below the screen, the tight, worried expression on his face, and finally he knows how he can do this. It’s likely that Eurus will not allow them to escape her traps alive, and he’s always had a need to say this to John, anyway. He looks at John’s eyes in the glass and memorises his beautiful face. None of the ugliness matters now. Only this. He shifts his gaze back to Molly in the camera but his eyes see nothing but John. “I love you,” he says, and the never-before uttered words come out sounding unnaturally gentle on his tongue, his voice low but the conviction in his tone is real. He says it again, just for the sheer novelty of saying it to John. It doesn’t matter that no one in the room, John included, knows who it was really for. 

His anxiety rises as Molly dawdles, but finally she says it back, two seconds remaining on the clock. He can see how much his feigned statement means to her, and he feels terrible. In a rare moment of exacerbated empathy, he imagines himself in her position and hearing John say this to him over the phone. He would believe it, too. The heart defaults toward hope, no matter how unlikely… and to find out it was all a ruse, later… rage rises in Sherlock’s chest and for a few moments he loses control of his temper completely. 

John is there with him, pulling him out of it, pulling him back into perspective and the urgency of the moment, his hand warm against Sherlock’s as he pulls him literally back onto his feet. Their eyes meet and hold and he sees that John understands completely, what he’s just done to Molly, but the equally solid understanding that they need to move together as a unit flows between them. Mycroft needs them; he is too weak to manage this on his own, and if they have any hope of surviving this, they must stay strong together. 

When he refuses to shoot either Mycroft or John in favour of turning the gun on himself, Eurus lashes out. He pulls her dart from his neck and even as he examines it, the darkness rises up around him and pulls him into its sticky embrace. When he wakes, he is alone, and this is his first point of concern: where is John? The answers all come together: the girl on the plane, Eurus’ song, Eurus herself, and John, John who is chained to the bottom of a well. It’s all mixed together in a horrifying nightmare that he has bare minutes to solve. His memory opens, stretches, pulls together the pieces of a realisation his seven-year-old mind could not handle at the time, but now he sees it. Only one thing is clear: he must reach Eurus before she ends John’s life. He tries to keep calm for John’s sake, rushing through the graveyard, the grounds, the house, his mind whirling and sorting and solving as rapidly as he knows how, and he solves it just in time. 

As angry as he is with Eurus, his own ability to feel compassion for her takes him by surprise. She’s just a child, lost and surrounded by adults she cannot trust. He gets the water shut off and rushes to the well as the authorities surround the house and remove his unresisting sister. He shouts down to John and throws him a rope to hold onto while a ladder is arranged for a wet-suited police officer to climb down and cut the underwater chains. Sherlock doesn’t move the entire time, holding John’s gaze and talking him through it. “Just hold on, John,” he says urgently. “They’re coming now. You’re all right. You’re all right.” 

“Sherlock…” John’s voice is shaky with panic, but his hands grip the rope, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. 

“You’re going to be all right now,” Sherlock repeats. “I’m here.”

John squints up against the light shining down into the well even as the officer begins to climb down. “I thought you weren’t going to come back in time. I thought you were preoccupied.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. Of course John would think this; he does not trust Sherlock. “I had to find her and get her to tell me how to shut the water off.” He should say more, say that John was his first priority, but somehow he can’t bring himself to say it. He keeps his eyes fixed on John, as though he can draw him physically out of the well by the strength of his gaze alone, and John seems to draw strength from that and doesn’t take his eyes from Sherlock’s even as the officer cuts him free and holds the ladder steady for John to climb out. Sherlock reaches for him when he’s in range and pulls him over the wall of the well, putting a blanket around John’s shivering form and turning to give the officer a deeply-meant thank you over his shoulder. His arms linger a little too long around John under the guise of rubbing over his arms to warm him and fend off hypothermia. “We’ll get you something hot to drink,” he’s saying when Lestrade comes over to check on them. 

They watch Eurus being led away and John is surprisingly sympathetic, given that Eurus just tried to kill him again. “Come on,” he says, once the entourage following the police cars have pulled away. “You can’t go back to Baker Street tonight. You’d better come back to the flat with me for now.” 

Sherlock looks at him in slight surprise, but John appears to mean it. “All right,” Sherlock says cautiously, and John smiles. 

“Come on,” he says. “You can get us a cab. You always were better at getting their attention than I was.” 

*** 

From that moment on, they stay together. It seems to get filed under the long list of topics which they don’t discuss. For two nights, Sherlock sleeps on the sofa at Mary’s flat while John sleeps in the bedroom upstairs. He hasn’t been there since the day Molly gave him John’s letter and does not relish being there, only it’s where John is. After that, Baker Street is sufficiently repaired to allow them to stay there, so they relocate. It was only that the windows needing replacing. The ceiling remained intact and the hole in the floor gets fixed next. Much of the rest of it, they take care of on their own. Neither one of them articulates it, but it feels to Sherlock very much like a new beginning that they’re cautiously building together. It feels right. He cannot dismiss his own apprehension, however, and doesn’t try, nor does he attempt to complicate matters by raising any issues of importance at all. He is content to accept John’s presence there and to be grateful for it. To expect anything more would be foolish. 

John goes back to the flat one day, a week into their residence at Baker Street, to collect more of his things and check the mail. He hasn’t said that he’ll stay at Baker Street indefinitely, nor that he’s moving in. Nor what he plans to do with Rosie. None of this has been discussed, and Sherlock very carefully does not probe. When John is ready to discuss it, surely he’ll bring it up.

He calls from the flat, though. “You’d better see this,” he says. “I’ve got Rosie here – can you come over?” 

Sherlock agrees and gets into a taxi, abandoning the wall he was repainting. John plays him the DVD Mary sent, and it raises a flurry of questions. 

“How did she send this, after her death?” John wants to know. 

Sherlock looks at him. “I had the same question after I received the one she sent me,” he says quietly. “I’ve no idea, John. That’s the honest truth.” 

John looks at him for a long time, many thoughts passing over his face but not making it into verbal form. Finally he says, “Then I guess we’ll just add it to the list of things we never knew about Mary and never will.” 

John hasn’t said Mary’s name since that day in the hospital and Sherlock feels a stirring of caution. They’re here in the flat where John spent his brief marriage to Mary, or parts of it, at least. “John…” He trails off, unsure as to what to say to this. He decides to say this. “I don’t know what to say.”

John looks down at his hands and sighs. “Sherlock – all that stuff I said to you about the way Mary believed in me and that… I don’t know why I said any of that. It wasn’t true. Mary didn’t make me a better person. Sometimes she made me feel that I’m only half the man I am, if you want to know. You’re the one who’s always believed in me. I know that. I’ve never said, but it’s true. And for all that it must have looked like I was wallowing in grief there… I don’t know exactly what to call it, but it was more a sense of personal failure than it was of grief.” He looks around the flat and gestures at it. “I hate this flat, you know. I never liked being here. I was never happy here. I spent my entire marriage to Mary wishing it had never happened and that I was still at Baker Street with you.” 

Sherlock blinks. He considers about thirty-seven potential responses, then chooses the simplest one. “Then let’s go there,” he says. “Bring Rosie, if you want. Stay as long as you want. You don’t need to stay here if you don’t like it.” 

John looks at him, and for a long time he just holds Sherlock’s gaze, keeping whatever he’s thinking to himself. “All right,” he says at last. “Let me just go up and get her.” When he comes back down with Rosie, she’s fussing in his arms, clearly resenting having been woken from her nap. “Sorry,” John says, more to Sherlock than to the child. “It’s just – everything’s got so complicated. We’ve both got family issues to consider now… you with your siblings, me with Rosie…” 

He doesn’t finish whatever it is he’s trying to say. Sherlock waits a moment, then decides not to pursue it. He doesn’t want to add any pressure to this situation, tenuous as it is. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, a bit vaguely. “We’ll sort it all out. Let’s just get out of here.” 

They go back to Baker Street. John continues having people look after Rosie. Sherlock sits down one day and writes a difficult email to Molly, explaining about his sister and the bombs that were or were not in Molly’s flat that day. She does not respond, and he’s frankly glad. He has no desire to discuss the entire, awful situation, but feels the loss of his friendship with Molly keenly. He checks on Mycroft now and then. _You know you can ask if you need anything_ , he writes one day. Mycroft responds rather distantly, so Sherlock sends back, _You know where to find me. SH_ , and his brother does not respond. Sherlock feels the silence as an acceptance, however, and knows that their relationship will be forever improved by Eurus’ trials. 

And he watches John, watches the spaces between them grow smaller daily. John no longer flinches away if their fingers touch in passing an object, nor does he shy away when Sherlock leans in over his shoulder to read something on the screen of his laptop or in the newspapers. Their silences grow warmer, more companionable. One afternoon, they’re sitting in their chairs across from one another, the fire lit in its grate, and there comes a moment wherein Sherlock feels that the window of opportunity has opened. “John,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence, “when we were at Musgrove Hall and you were in the well – ”

John looks up over his book, his eyes focusing on Sherlock, a line appearing between them. “Yes?” He’s not quite frowning, but almost. 

The words want to come out in a rush, but Sherlock makes himself proceed with caution. “I just wanted to say – you know that I hadn’t forgotten you, don’t you? That I wasn’t preoccupied with Eurus, or the girl on the plane. I was focused on solving the riddle because I was trying to find a way to save you. That was my priority.” 

John blinks once or twice. “Oh,” he says. “I – hadn’t really thought of it that way. I rather thought I was an afterthought.”

“You have never been an afterthought to me,” Sherlock says firmly. “Not for years, at any rate.”

“But sometimes, in the past, you used to leave without me,” John reminds him. “You used to forget about me.” 

Sherlock finds his gaze and holds it. “Not now,” he repeats. “I never would. I – just wanted you to know that.” 

John looks at him for a long time, then begins to smile. “All right,” he says, accepting it, and drops his gaze back down to his book. “Thank you for the clarification.” 

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock says primly, and feels as though his attempt rather failed to make the impression he was hoping for. He means to say that John is his only priority, that nothing else matters the way John matters. Perhaps there is only so far he will ever be able to get, that John will ever permit him. There was never any trust on John’s side, and Sherlock gave him a wealth of reasons to never allow it to build. Perhaps this is as good as it will ever be. 

Yet John continues to warm to him, and Sherlock cannot help but feel it acutely and want to respond to it. He considers every action thrice over before committing to it, his sole consideration being how John will interpret it, react to it. He doesn’t know why it’s happening, why John’s smiles have grown fonder, but they have. One evening he stirs, shifting his laptop to the side table and stretching enormously. “Feel like watching something?” he asks. 

Sherlock looks up from the article he was reading on soil decomposition and blinks. “Like what?” he asks. 

John’s voice is as relaxed and affable as his posture, slouched comfortably in his chair. “Oh, anything, really. Something on Netflix, I thought. A film or maybe a new series.” 

“We brought your DVDs over, too,” Sherlock reminds him. “We can watch anything you like. You choose. Perhaps not Mary’s DVD.” 

He says this as a joke, but nearly winces the instant the words leave his mouth – too soon? But John grimaces. “God, no,” he says. His smile fades, but he shakes his head and says, “You know, that entire thing still bothers me. How did she send it after her death? And then the entire message was so patronising, as though she thought she knows us better than we know ourselves. ‘Her’ Baker Street boys, indeed!” He looks over at Sherlock, who does not know how to react to this. “We were us before we ever knew her,” he says, and his grouping of the two of them as _us_ warms Sherlock to the core. 

He can’t bring himself to meet John’s eyes, but nods. “We were,” he says, his voice slightly unsteady. “We… go back farther. This: we had this before… any of the rest of it.” 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice sounds as though it is aching with unspoken things and it makes Sherlock’s abdomen clench to hear it. Their eyes meet and suddenly this has become terribly serious, as though not one second more can be allowed to pass without whatever John is about to ask. “Why did you never tell me that you were alive?” 

Sherlock looks at him in shock. John has never asked this before. Their eyes meet and John’s are full of years-old pain that he isn’t even trying to hide. “You’ve never asked before,” Sherlock says, his voice low and even less steady. 

“I’m asking now. I should have asked before, but I just – I need to know, Sherlock. Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think it wouldn’t matter to me?” John shakes his head, his left hand opening and closing in its habitual show of anxiety. “I told you, during all of that, with the press – I told you that I knew you were for real. I thought I made it clear that I was on your side. That I was with you.” 

Sherlock feels his brow contract. This does not match the words of John’s letter. “It wasn’t that,” he says. “I had to draw the snipers away from you. There were snipers,” he explains, seeing John’s confusion. “I should have led with that. Moriarty had snipers on you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. He was the only one who could call them off, and he killed himself. The only way to prevent them from taking the three of you out was for them to see my suicide. For what it’s worth, I never intended you to witness it, but I did need you to believe it. For your own safety.” 

He risks a look at John and sees John’s mouth open. “But – ” He closes it and swallows, then tries again. “Tell me this,” he says instead, his voice and face as intense as Sherlock has ever seen it. “Why did you shoot Magnussen? Was it really for Mary, after she’d shot you?” 

Sherlock’s jaw clenches momentarily. “No,” he says, looking into the fire. “I shot him so that you could have Mary. Have the life you wanted.” 

“Sherlock – ” John stops, his voice choked in his throat, and having begun, Sherlock decides to add the other reason. 

“And because he touched you. Because he tried to humiliate you. I found that – intolerable.” Sherlock keeps his eyes on the fire, his jaw clenching. 

John takes a deep, shuddering breath, then abruptly gets to his feet and goes to the fire place, then turns to face him, his expression intense. “And you and Mary: were you ever really friends? Or was that a façade for my benefit, too?” 

“I did try,” Sherlock says quietly, looking up at him. “For your sake, I tried. Maybe even too hard. In the last few months there… it did occur to me that perhaps that had backfired. That you resented it. Felt left out.” 

John nods, looking down at his hands. “I did. Yeah. Thought you’d replaced me with her.” 

Sherlock feels a stirring of anger and attempts to squash it down. This conversation is too important. “I thought I’d made that adequately clear, too,” he says shortly. “I said it at your wedding: it’s only ever been you, John. You have been my first priority since the day I returned from Serbia. I don’t know what I could have done to make that clearer. You’re all that matters to me.” 

John seems to be having difficulty breathing. “Do you – do you mean that – the way it sounds?” he asks, the words coming out jerkily and awkward. “I mean – I don’t mean to be dense, but – just – ”

Sherlock looks up at him and feels strangely calm, in spite of the anger still kindled in his abdomen. “I’m not sure how it could be clearer,” he says. “You’re the person I care about more than anyone else in the world.”

John’s mouth opens again, his brow still furrowed, and Sherlock wonders how it can _still_ not be getting through. “But – ” The single word blurts itself out, loud and unfiltered. More follow. “Then why did it never – why was it never – more?” John asks, probably louder than he realises. “All of that tension, toward the end. Around Dartmoor, and after, right up to the day when you jumped – did you already – feel like this then?” 

Sherlock nods, not taking his eyes from John’s, his heart fluttering oddly in his chest. “Yes.” 

“Then why?” John demands. “God knows I wanted it! I thought you knew – I thought I rather gave myself away, with The Woman!”

Sherlock’s shoulder gives a jerky twitch that might be a shrug. “Because I had to leave. Because I didn’t understand that you wanted that in the first place, and then I had to leave. And when I came back, you were with Mary. What was I supposed to say?” 

John blinks. “I don’t know. I don’t know. But now – Sherlock – I just have to know. You can laugh if I’ve got it wrong – I don’t even care any more. Just tell me this: do you love me?” 

Sherlock swallows. He thinks of answering, but there is too much turmoil within him to allow this to be that simple. “Where is this coming from, John?” he asks instead, his mouth dry. “Why now, after everything that’s happened – why would you change your mind now?” 

John looks confused. “What do you mean, ‘change my mind’?” he wants to know. 

Sherlock glares at him. “You don’t trust me and never have,” he reminds John pointedly. “You said you regretted having ever believed in me, having stood by me when everyone else turned against me. That you regretted ever having met me. How can that not factor into whatever you’re trying to ask now?” 

John stares at him, even more confused. “What? I never said any of that!” 

“Yes, you did,” Sherlock contradicts flatly. 

John’s hands are on his hips. “When?” he demands. “Sherlock – I think I would remember if I’d said something like that to you!” 

Suddenly it’s too much. This is one thing Sherlock finds himself decidedly not wanting to give laboratory proof of. He gets up and goes over to the desk and opens the top drawer. He withdraws the letter and crosses the room to hand it to John. “Your letter,” he says briefly. “The one you had Molly deliver. Read your own words.” He moves away, swiftly plucking his coat from the back of the door and escaping down the seventeen steps to the front door. 

A taxi slows at the kerb at his gesture and he gets inside. “Drive,” he orders. “Anywhere. Just drive.” 

He slumps back against the upholstery as the car pulls away and thinks of John, sitting there in the silence Sherlock left behind him, re-reading his own letter and quite probably coming to the conclusion that Sherlock is right and that whatever he was trying to accomplish is hopeless and rather too late at this point. He closes his eyes and ignores the city passing by. 

*** 

Molly is sitting slouched down into the corner of the sofa, hating everything. The only times she comes even close to keeping it together is when she’s got Rosie, and right now Rosie is with Mrs Whitney. It’s a Saturday and no bodies came in, so she doesn’t even have the escape of her job. 

She’d finally realised that Mary has no plans to come back. She never did. Some of the other pieces fell into place, too: obviously there was a lot more about herself than Mary ever bothered telling her about. Her sudden flight, there, having people under her employ, and now her faked death and disappearance all speak to some sort of mysterious past, but Molly doesn’t know what it is. All she knows is that Mary has abandoned her, along with everyone else, including her own daughter, and she is not coming back. 

It hit her harder than she realised it would. She felt like she had more to the claim of abandoned spouse than John did. Mary promised her that the plan would drive Sherlock and John apart forever, but it hadn’t: she’d been furious to find herself pulled into another of Sherlock’s plans, John right there at his side, and she’d been so angry she didn’t even know what to do with herself, lashing out at Sherlock with vitriol. Mary promised that he would fall into despair and turn to her at last, but he didn’t: instead, he turned to drugs and even so, somehow managed to get John back! And on top of that, Mary’s final promise was that Sherlock would simply wake up to it all one day, like a miracle, that he would come to her somehow. She’d just got home from work and was making a cup of tea when he’d called. She’d been crying over Mary again, thinking of summer and rosé and watching films on the sofa at Mary’s flat, rather than coming back here to her own, lonely apartment. And then suddenly the phone rang and it was Sherlock. Wanting her to tell him that she loved him. 

It was like a miracle. She’d made him say it first, and when he finally did, she could feel in her bones how much he meant it: it was the real deal. Shock and joy had trembled through her frame, meaning so much to her that she could barely contain it. But then – there was nothing. No follow-up. She’d been surprised that he’d disconnected so quickly, but she hadn’t worried then. Perhaps it had just been too much, saying that much to her and hearing her say it back. He would come by or something, and they’d say it to each other in person… but that never happened. Instead, five long days later, she received an email from him, explaining. And apologising. The explanation made sense once she got past her initial confusion and the shock of discovering that her flat had been rigged with bombs and cameras. But the ultimate truth was that he had not, in fact, meant it at all. He did not and does not love her. He’d only said it that way so that she would believe him enough to say it back. He’d saved her life. But he does not love her. 

Furious tears had ensued, along with a shattered coffee mug. Mary lied to her. The only other possible explanation was that Mary simply didn’t understand Sherlock as well as she thought she did, or she’d overestimated Molly’s ability to hook Sherlock’s interest. Most likely it was the first, though: given that Mary’s last act to her was a lie, surely it’s just logical to apply the possibility to the entire rest of their personal history. She thinks of all the times that Mary made her feel off-balance, unsure of herself, even (sometimes especially) when they were being intimate. It also feels clear in retrospect that it never meant anything whatsoever to Mary. All she cared about was John, and when John stopped loving her, Mary took out any and all personal investment in the situation, up to and including her own infant daughter. Molly didn’t even rate. She was nothing more than collateral damage – and better still, collateral damage that Mary considered trustworthy enough to leave her partially responsible for the child she’d left behind, with the phone number she’d told Molly not to use. She could call, but even if the number is real, what would she say? _So you’re not coming back, then._ She imagines Mary’s sneered response. _Just figuring that out now, darling? Please. What do you want?_ No: the illusions have broken. Mary only kept her around to use her, amuse herself, perhaps, but also to orchestrate things, maybe to make John jealous, for her babysitting, for her video equipment. For her loyalty to keep quiet about Rosie’s true father, about – all of it. 

The doorbell rings, startling her. Who could it be? No one ever comes here. Not now. Molly pulls herself up from the sofa and goes to answer it. 

She wasn’t expecting John, but there he is on the doorstep, his face like a thundercloud. “Molly,” he demands, without preamble, without introduction. “What have you done??”

Molly’s mouth falls open, stammering. “Wh- what – ” And then she sees it: the letter in John’s hand, and her heart rate trebles. She is nearly hyperventilating. “Oh God – oh God – you were never supposed to – ” She pushes both hands against her mouth to stop the words from coming, panic rising around her, its wings flapping in her face. She’s been caught. Sherlock and John were never supposed to have seen each other again; John was never supposed to know that a letter was forged in his name. 

Her knees are trying to collapse and John yanks out a chair from the kitchen table, having followed her inside, and sits her roughly down on it. “What the hell have you done?” he shouts. “Molly! Why would you do this? Do you _know_ what this could have cost us? Why did you do it?” 

She’s crying and shaking, her nose leaking, and she can’t get control of herself. “I’m sorry!” she sobs. “I’m so sorry!” 

John shakes her by the shoulders, though not as hard as he could have. “What were you thinking?” he demands. “Why would you do this to us?” 

“She made me!” Molly wails. “I didn’t – but she said it was part of the plan, her stupid plan that never – I didn’t even choose what to – it’s her words, John, not mine! I just – wrote what she told me to write.” 

John straightens up, his hands on his hips. For a moment he just surveys her. Then he says, flatly, “Mary made you write this?” 

Molly nods, still sobbing. 

John reaches for a box of tissues on the kitchen table and plucks several out of it, shoving them into her face, though not ungently. “Here,” he says shortly. “Get yourself together. You’re going to tell me all of it. And then, God help me, I’m going to try to find Sherlock and sort this all out. Come on: blow your nose, pull yourself together. Start from the beginning.”

Molly hiccoughs and does as he tells her, looking down into her lap the entire while. John asks a question or two, but doesn’t sound particularly angry, not even when he learns that she and Mary were sleeping together. His only question about that is whether or not it carried on after he went back to Mary, and doesn’t flinch when she confesses that it had, her voice very small. She doesn’t, for reasons she isn’t even certain of, tell him that Mary is still alive, nor does she tell him about Rosie’s true parentage. She senses that John is fidgeting to be finished with this, and she is correct: when he thinks she’s told him all she has to say, he gets up. 

“You shouldn’t have done this,” he says, still holding the letter and gesturing with it. “It’s caused more damage than you can know. It’s made him question everything, from the very start. I guess that’s what the two of you wanted, huh? To finish us off, as friends.” 

Molly can’t find anything to say to this, especially as it’s true. She swallows again, nervous. 

John shakes his head in disgust. “Well, you and me both fell for it, I guess. Luckily I’m out of it. There’s a lot more I could say here – a _lot_ more. You should know that Sherlock was totally cut up over having to do that to you, when he saved you from those bombs. You made it pretty hard for him and he felt terribly after. Now I’m not so sure that you didn’t deserve it, for this. I’ve got to find him now, and explain. I won’t make you do that, though maybe you should. Just – stay out of our way from now on, all right?” 

Molly nods, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. 

John hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Okay,” he says, his voice rough. He turns and walks out the door without another word. 

*** 

Sherlock’s phone pings with a text. It’s John: he already knew it would be. _Where are you? I need to see you!_ Sherlock stares at it. He’s half-numb with cold, having been sitting on a bench in Regent’s Park for over an hour now. He thinks, then texts back, _What for? Surely you aren’t going to try to convince me that you didn’t mean what you said._ He waits, seeing the ellipsis of John typing, then his message finally comes: _I didn’t write that letter, Sherlock. Come home and I’ll explain everything. Just come home! Please. I need to see you._

Sherlock’s heart rate spikes in sudden hope. Could this be true? He desperately wants it to be. He gets to his feet and begins walking rapidly in the direction of Baker Street. It’s too slow: he breaks into a run, heedless of the other people in the park, and doesn’t stop until he’s home, charging up the stairs to the sitting room. Their eyes meet when Sherlock reaches the top, John already on his feet upon hearing him. 

“Is that true?” Sherlock demands, bursting into the sitting room, breathless. “You didn’t write that letter?” 

John is already coming over to him, shaking his head. “I didn’t write a damn word of it,” he says fiercely. “Nor do I feel any of those things. I know how it must have seemed, after Mary died, and I know I was a total shit to you – and then that awful day at the hospital – all of that is my fault and I’m so fucking sorry, Sherlock! But I never wrote that letter. And I never thought any of that, ever.” 

Several thousand thoughts crowd into Sherlock’s head at once and for a moment he is pinioned between all of them, unable to decide what to say first. Then his mind whirls and clears and he says the one thing that truly matters right now: the answer to John’s question. “I love you,” he says, and it comes out more intensely and urgently than anything he’s ever said before. He sees John’s face change, his eyes softening and somehow becoming even more fierce at the same time. 

“Sherlock – ” John chokes out his name, and then he’s there, fists closing in the wool of Sherlock’s coat sleeves and then his mouth is on Sherlock’s, warm and strong and very certain, and Sherlock finds himself shivering with the shock and delight of it both, warmth coursing throughout his frame at the feel of John’s lips on his. It’s unfathomably better than he even let himself imagine it could be. Belatedly his hands come up and close around John’s elbows, then, as the kiss continues, find their way to John’s waist. John moves both of his hands to Sherlock’s face, his mouth opening under Sherlock’s, their tongues touching, and Sherlock’s knees go suddenly weak. John responds by curling a strong arm around his back and holding him upright against himself. 

When it finally ebbs off, John doesn’t move away, his arm still supporting Sherlock’s weight. His left hand is cupping Sherlock’s face, thumb rubbing over his cheekbone. “I love you, too,” he says, and his voice is very, very gentle, his eyes almost unbearably full of meaning. “I do, Sherlock – I’ve loved you for a long time and I’ve been fucking this up from the very start. I’m sorry – I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done to you, when all you’ve ever done for me is save me, over and over again – and love me enough to try to give me anything and everything you thought I wanted. I don’t deserve you by half – but if you’ll have me, I’m all yours. I got there at last.” 

Sherlock is almost afraid to try to speak. “You don’t deserve _me_ ,” he repeats, incredulous. “John – after everything I’ve put _you_ through – that you can say that with any degree of seriousness at all is simply – unfathomable. I believed the letter because it felt true. It felt as though it should be true. Though I’ll admit that it was even worse than I had thought.” 

“I have never regretted meeting you,” John vows, stroking Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead. “Meeting you changed my life in the best ways possible, even with the less-good bits. And I have never not trusted you. The only time when that might have been true at all is after Mary died and I lost faith in everything and everyone. But that was more to do with me than with you. I blamed you because I couldn’t handle taking the blame myself, which I knew I deserved, what with the texting affair and knowing that Mary died knowing that I didn’t love her anymore. In a way, it’s precisely because I trusted you that I knew you would accept the burden of my guilt and spare me from that, too. Not consciously, maybe, but – somewhere in there. You’ve always been there for me, and even after I turned on you and rejected you – even after you got this terrible letter, you _still_ nearly killed yourself all in an effort to save me, no thanks to Mary’s rotten advice. God, what a – but more about her later. Right now, it’s our time at last. It’s only about us now. No villains. No distractions. Just us at last.” 

The warmth of John’s arms is more addictive than anything Sherlock has ever experienced. “Okay,” he says unsteadily, and John draws his face down and kisses him again for a very long, very good while. Time loses all meaning. The only thing Sherlock can think of, or wants to think of, are the precise movements of John’s lips and tongue against his own, of their breath, of his own heart beating wildly. He becomes aware of John unbuttoning his coat and pushing it off his shoulders even as they kiss. He steps out of his shoes next and gets closer to John and it’s _good_. He can feel the heat of John’s torso through his shirt, against his own, and that’s addictive, too. He can feel himself shuddering, pressing against John to drink in more of that heat, feel John’s heart beating against his own, but questions begin to push their way insistently forward, too. Eventually he pulls away a little to ask some of them. “But where did this all come from?” he wants to know, still confused. “I mean – I know things were better after Culverton Smith, but – was it just coming home again? Or what made you suddenly think to bring it up after so long?” 

John takes his hand and pulls him over to the sofa and they sit down, very close together, arms still around each other. “It was a few things,” John tells him. His elbow is on the back of the sofa and he starts carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and it feels nice – very nice, Sherlock amends mentally. John goes on, explaining. “When I saw Mary’s DVD and realised what you were doing – that it really was a plan and not an accidental slide, that you had deliberately put yourself into harm’s way all to provoke me out of my depression and to give me a sense of purpose again – once everything finally settled down and I had time to think about it, I finally saw the pattern, Sherlock. You did that for me the instant we first met: cured me of my limp and gave me a sense of purpose again. Then you tried your best to redeem Mary for me – because you know I would have left her when I found out that it was she who had shot you. You tried to save my marriage for me, even to the point of shooting someone. It wasn’t your fault that it just wasn’t salvageable. She was just – a monster, really. She had no remorse for anything she’d done, only remorse that we’d caught her. It was the same when she ran off and we went to find her. She was proud of what she’d done with the A.G.R.A team, not sorry. It was too much to swallow and it couldn’t last. And then she got herself killed and I blamed you and you _still_ , even though you believed I never wanted to see you again, would have given up your life to save me. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. And then we came home, and it started to feel the way it used to, before everything got so complicated, and so I started to let myself hope again, that maybe it actually could be – this.” 

Sherlock searches John’s eyes, his fingers linked with John’s in their laps while John’s other hand strokes through his hair. “We’re… not very good at communication,” he says, and it comes out sounding like the understatement of a lifetime. 

John gives a short laugh. “You can say that again!” he says emphatically. “But now – we’ve got past so much. Mary. Eurus. Moriarty. We’re finally back here, together, and I’m determined that no one and nothing is ever going to interfere again!” 

Sherlock opens his mouth, but again, there are too many things to say, so he settles for leaning forward and kissing John again, soundly, and John kisses back with every bit as much enthusiasm. The next time they come up for air, more questions occur. “So who wrote the letter, then?” Sherlock asks. 

“Molly,” John says briefly. “But it was Mary who put her up to it, Mary who told her which words to say.”

“Molly!” Sherlock is startled. “Why would she do that? I wasn’t aware that they were as good friends as that would suggest.” 

John’s eyebrows rise. “Yeah, well, neither did I, but it seems they were more than just friends, if you want to know. Seems they were, er, carrying on together, if you get my drift.” 

Sherlock frowns. “Molly and Mary?” He feels completely baffled. “What an unimaginable combination!” 

“Quite,” John agrees. “When you told me it was Molly who gave you the letter, I thought I would start there. When you left, I got a cab and went to her flat and made her tell me everything. It seems they had a plan to destroy our friendship. I guess they can’t have known that Mary would die when she did, but the timing sure worked in their favour. Molly’s very sorry, for what it’s worth. But I think you can stop castigating yourself over that phone call now. She knows that you saved her life and I told her that she made it harder than it needed to be. She was sobbing, though. I couldn’t bring myself to be too harsh, and besides, I was more interested in sorting things out with you.” 

Sherlock isn’t sure what to make of this. It’s too much to process right now, and all he wants to focus on is John. “Let’s talk about the rest of it later,” he says. “Right now, all I want is you.” 

John smiles, and the smile warms Sherlock impossibly further. “Tell me again that you love me,” he requests. 

Sherlock smiles back. “I love you,” he says. “I nearly said it on the tarmac, you know. But something held me back. I didn’t think you wanted to hear it.” 

“I think if you’d said it then, I’d have gone completely to pieces,” John admits. “With Mary and Mycroft there, too… maybe that’s for the best.” 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock agrees. “But I realised while Culverton Smith was attempting to kill me that I genuinely didn’t want to die. Not without having told you at last. But there never seemed to be a good time to say it. So when I had say it to Molly… I was really saying it to you, you know.”

“I was so jealous, hearing you say it to her,” John confesses, touching Sherlock’s lower lip with his thumb. “I was doing my best to suppress it and just get us both through that whole thing. But then in the next stage, where you refused to even contemplate shooting me – that helped, too. And then later, when you told me that saving me from the well was your first priority, it helped me get there, to see that the theme all along here has been how incredibly much you care about me. So I thought that maybe it was worth trying for, starting over and doing this properly. I didn’t want to rush it, though. I wanted it to feel like the right moment before I said anything, because the last thing I wanted to do was fuck it up even more.” 

Sherlock nods, understanding. “It’s always been you, John Watson,” he repeats softly, and John says his name in a low, fevered voice, and kisses him again. It goes on for a very long time, both unhurried and urgent at the same time. John’s arms are strong around his back, stroking over it, and Sherlock lets himself go and touches John the same way in return. He’s never felt so much at once before and it’s very nearly overwhelming. His desire to be ever closer to John is swamping him, escaping from him, betraying him as he presses himself into John’s chest, but it seems clear that John’s hunger for him is just as strong. When John starts unbuttoning his shirt, he makes a questioning sound, and Sherlock agrees, urgency flooding his voice. “Please,” he hears himself say, his voice low and filled with need. “I want – ”

“Yes?” John looks into his eyes, his own darkly blue and starred with emotion. 

“You,” Sherlock breathes, and their mouths lock together again, tongues and lips caressing each other’s, sucking at each other’s, and it’s so good, so right, that it’s nearly painful. John’s mouth moves to his throat after awhile and Sherlock hears himself gasping, his fingers clenching in John’s soft hair. “Please – ” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, just that there be more, infinitely more, and John understands. 

He kisses Sherlock’s mouth again, again, then asks, both of them breathing hard, “Yes – anything, Sherlock – what do you want?” 

“Just – take me,” Sherlock pants, his eyes closed. “Take all of me!” 

John actually moans, seizes his face, and kisses him again, again, as though he can’t bring himself to stop. “I don’t want to – rush anything,” he gets out, with difficulty. “But – ”

“How is it rushing, if we’ve both been waiting for this for literal years?” Sherlock demands, and John laughs, rather breathlessly. 

He pulls back just enough to look into Sherlock’s eyes, both hands on his face and conveying infinite amounts of tenderness. “Have you… ever been with anyone before?” he asks, searching Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock hesitates, thinking of Chris. “Once,” he said. “It wasn’t anything – elaborate, just – hands, but – ”

John studies him, hands still on his face, then asks, “Was that – since we first met?” 

Sherlock cannot and does not want to lie to him. Not now. Not when they’re finally getting past their own communication problems. “Yes,” he says, feeling guilty. “Only once, though. And it was nothing especially – involved.” 

John bites his lip. “Can I ask…?”

Sherlock feels a bit abashed. “The chip guy from the shop that used to be around the corner. It’s a Hoover repair shop now.”

John nods. “Right, I remember… one of the employees there?” 

Sherlock nods. “His name was Chris. From what I hear, he’s married now and lives somewhere in the West Country.” He shrugs. “It was just one time. If you want to know, I used to end up there sometimes when I felt that things between us were going badly and I just wanted an escape. He would talk to me sometimes, urge me to open up about whatever the problem was. And one night, he invited me up to ‘help him put some shelves’. I wasn’t familiar with the expression, but he’d been kind to me. I agreed, and the next thing I knew, he was kissing me. That’s all there is to it. He said it was symbiosis, just a mutual need. It was barely anything; we just stood there in the dark and kissed and he touched me.” 

John looks down into their laps, his cheeks flushed, shielding his eyes from Sherlock’s. “You didn’t touch him?” 

“I didn’t even think to,” Sherlock says, honestly. “The entire thing was – rather a surprise.” He bends forward and touches his nose to John’s in an unschooled need to touch him again, to express some miniscule part of the overwhelming ocean of what he feels for John. “What it did for me, though, was to wake me up to the possibilities of what I wanted to have with you. I used to think about it, especially when I was away.” He continues touching his nose and lips to John’s as he speaks, trying to convey the strength of his feelings, the depth of his desire for him. “I fantasised about it, endless scenarios of how it could be made to happen and what we might do, and how. I had never wanted in such a tangibly physical way before, and once it started, I couldn’t turn it off. I’ve wanted you for years now.”

John makes a sound of agreement, responding to Sherlock’s touches, then turns his face a little and kisses him again, long and slow and sweet, then says, “Then I’m glad it happened. I’ve never done anything with another man at all, but I’ve definitely thought about it with you. A lot. I think we’ll – figure it out.”

Sherlock nods and closes the space between them again, needing impossibly more of John. Their legs are in the way, half-turned toward each other in a tangle of limbs. Sherlock says, unable to even take his mouth all the way from John’s, “Come to bed.” The words come out mashed against John’s mouth, but it doesn’t matter: John understands. 

He makes a sound of profound agreement and unwinds himself, pulling Sherlock to his feet. He takes Sherlock’s hands and leads him down the corridor to Sherlock’s own bedroom, closing the door behind them. He turns to Sherlock, his face and eyes intense. 

Sherlock touches his tongue to his lower lip, suddenly nervous. “What – happens next? I don’t – ”

“It’s okay,” John cuts in, gentle, putting his arms around Sherlock again. “There’s no set ritual, as such. I thought – I’m dying to be naked with you, Sherlock. To feel you against me – can we take our clothes off now?” 

Sherlock nods, his heart rate spiking at the very thought. “Yes. Let’s do that.” 

John smiles dreamily at him, his eyes half-lidded. “I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve looked at you and thought about undressing you,” he confesses. He takes one of Sherlock’s wrists and starts unbuttoning his cuffs. “These torturously tight shirts of yours have been driving me wild for years now. And I can’t even talk about your trousers without sounding completely filthy.” 

Sherlock is startled but rather pleased by this. “You – find me attractive?” he asks, aware that his face is flushing self-consciously even as the words leave his mouth. 

“Er, yeah, Sherlock. Incredibly.” John finishes with his cuffs and leans up to kiss him again, their mouths opening from the start this time, and John pushes the shirt all the way off him and makes an approving sound when Sherlock pulls his jumper up over his head and tosses it to the floor. They’re skin-to-skin now, kissing hard and pressing into each other. John reaches down to grip his arse and Sherlock nearly swoons. He is aware that he’s aroused from the start this time, unlike with Chris, who brought him into it with his hand, first coaxing, then encouraging, then caressing. No coaxing will be needed this time. 

He allows his hands to slide south to grasp at the curve of John’s cheeks, both of them exhaling vocally into the kiss as their erections make contact properly, and then John brings one hand around the front to slip down and rub Sherlock through his trousers, which makes him gasp. John pulls back from the kiss to glance up at him in slight concern, but Sherlock shakes his head. “No, it’s – good – I – don’t stop!”

John makes a contented sound and unbuttons Sherlock’s trousers now. “Get these off you, then,” he breathes, and Sherlock nods feverishly and unbuttons and unzips John’s jeans in return, moving the zip carefully over the protruding bulge behind it, and his mouth fills with saliva. 

They finish undressing hastily, not taking their eyes from each other, then pull each other back into one another’s arms, touching everywhere now, and Sherlock can hardly breathe. The sheer intimacy of it is almost too much stimulation to handle, every nerve ending firing simultaneously, his mouth and hands as occupied as his brain. They stumble over to the bed somehow and fall into it, shoving the blankets aside, John on top of him, and Sherlock finds himself harder than he even knew he could be, his penis harder than steel and flushed darkly, rubbing directly against John’s, pleasure shivering through every part of his body but specifically concentrated there. John is thrusting against him, moaning softly, the muscles of his arse flexing and releasing under Sherlock’s hands. “… more, please…” he breathes, like a prayer, and John makes a sound of pained acquiescence and moves faster, harder.

There’s a small amount of friction and suddenly Sherlock thinks of the tube in drawer of the nightstand and reaches for it, his hand scrabbling. He gets the lid off somehow, one-handed, and gets some onto his fingers and palm – probably too much, but – he reaches between them and wraps his hand around them both and this time they both moan, simultaneously. It instantly feels even better than it did before and John’s speed increases again, thrusting hard into the circle of Sherlock’s fist, and the entire thing – the friction, the intimacy, the gut-hollowing pleasure all coalesces and suddenly Sherlock hears his voice, high and almost alarmed, and then it bursts out of him like a supernova, his body jerking upward against John’s, the pleasure howling through him unstoppable floods, his hand transferring to John’s arse to hold John to himself as tightly as possible as his body spurts and spurts in embarrassing profusion, but John is there, too, shouting and thrusting into the mess Sherlock left on his own skin, and then John is spilling onto him in hot bursts, shouting out as his body erupts, and then he sags down onto Sherlock’s chest, panting in his ear, his back heaving. Sherlock’s penis is still twitching and quivering with the aftershocks of it, softening and unbearably sensitive, feeling John’s still quivering against his own. And this, incredibly, feels still _more_ intimate than what just happened. Sherlock is awash with it. 

John lifts his head after a few, dazed minutes have passed, and looks down at him, then without a word, puts his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and kisses him again, deeply, and for a long time. After, he pulls the blankets over them both and kisses Sherlock again, again. “God – ” His voice is shredded with emotion. “Who knew we could really have this, that it could be like this? All the time we wasted – ”

“Shh,” Sherlock says, folding his arms around John and closing his eyes, his face pressed into John’s hair. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. We’re here now.” 

“I love you,” John says, and when he lifts his head again, Sherlock see that his eyes are wet. “I love you so much, Sherlock.” 

“So do I – ” It’s as far as Sherlock can get before John is kissing him again, and he shuts up in favour of throwing himself into the kiss. It’s absolutely phenomenal, like something out of a dream, only far better than he could have imagined. And it has nothing to do with mere symbiosis, with rubbing body parts together for the sake of mutual comfort: this is the real thing. John is his everything, the person meant to experience his life from his side, be with him, witness him, and now, become one with him at last. They turn onto their sides, legs still twined together, and Sherlock says, searching John’s eyes, “I want to keep going. I want to do everything with you. I want to – have you inside me.” 

John’s breath draws in sharply, but even so, his penis gives a twitch of tangible interest against Sherlock’s, and he doesn’t try to hide it. “You don’t have to convince me, but it might take me awhile to recover from what we just did.” He reaches over to stroke Sherlock’s hair back again. “You’re absolutely incredible, you know.” 

Sherlock finds himself both touched and pleased by the compliment. “Am I? Even without any sort of real experience to offer?” 

“That almost makes it better, if you want to know,” John tells him. “I love that it’s new for both of us. And yeah: I want to try everything there is to try. No holds barred, Sherlock. I’m all yours. For good.” 

It’s the best night of Sherlock’s life. They talk until their bodies stir again, and then the talking ebbs off as they experiment some more, Sherlock fitting himself into the space between John’s thighs to taste John, try arousing him and pleasing him with his mouth and tongue, and finds himself better than he anticipated at this. When John does it to him in return, he comes so hard that he sees stars, and it’s magnificent. They spend the entire night exploring together, talking and testing and kissing, and Sherlock feels as though he’s crossed into some wonderful, parallel dimension, a life unimaginably better than he could ever have hoped to have. 

Eventually, toward dawn, they sleep. Sherlock wakes mid-morning, needing to urinate and do some thinking. They talked about Mary at last, properly, and Sherlock thinks now that they’re still missing something about her, some important piece of information. He extracts himself with care from John’s sleep-loosened grasp and pads barefoot and nude into the bathroom to relieve himself. He washes his hands and drinks a glass of water after, then surveys himself in the mirror with satisfaction: the marks of John’s mouth are clearly visible in several places, and others are rosy from having been pressed against John as they slept. He combs the tangles out of his curls and brushes his teeth, then decides to wait until after he’s showered to shave. He should get up properly now and go do some thinking, but seeing John’s sleeping form sprawled across his bed is too great a temptation to ignore. He shuts off the light and crawls up the foot of the bed to lie down partially on John and partially beside him, his erection already filling out at the very sight of John’s nude form. 

John’s breathing changes, and then he wakes. “Hello,” he says, opening his eyes and finding Sherlock’s on his. He smiles. 

“Hello,” Sherlock says, smiling back, and John moves over to kiss him. 

He lifts his arse and rubs it suggestively against Sherlock’s erection, which is pressing into the junction of his arse and hip. “Again?” he teases. 

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re not in a similar state?” Sherlock asks archly, lifting his brows. 

John grins. “Never said I wasn’t. Though you could just find out for yourself…”

Sherlock gives a low laugh and slides both hands under them to find John’s trapped erection, and sure enough, John is very hard. They both shift so that John can give him space as Sherlock curls both hands around it and begins to stroke. The resultant position leaves him pressed up against John’s back and arse, his penis fitting directly into the cleft of John’s arse. John moans, then turns over beneath Sherlock and pulls him down to himself. 

“What did we do with that lube?” he wants to know, and after a bit of patting around for it, they find it. John smears some onto them both, then puts both hands on Sherlock’s arse as Sherlock begins to thrust against him, rocking their bodies together as the pleasure begins to build. He lost most of his self-consciousness overnight; now it’s just fun. John comes first this time, moaning as his release sprays out over both of them. When he finishes, he grabs at Sherlock’s hips, pulling him upward, and Sherlock goes in some confusion until John’s mouth closes around the head of his penis and begins to suck. Sherlock holds onto the headboard and gasps raggedly as John’s mouth moves over his most sensitive flesh, sucking the orgasm up from the depths of his testicles, and when it’s upon him, he thrusts helplessly into John’s throat and pours himself down it, unable to stop, but John just makes sounds to encourage it, and the sounds make Sherlock come even harder. 

He shifts down after, pulling himself from John’s lips, and replaces his penis with his mouth on John’s, kissing him deeply enough that he can almost taste himself, John’s hands running appreciatively up and down his back and sides and arse. It’s paradise, Sherlock thinks hazily, then remembers that he’s supposed to be thinking. He decides to say this after a little bit. “I was supposed to be thinking,” he tells John. “I got distracted.” 

John grins, full unrepentant. “Good. What were you supposed to be thinking about?” 

Sherlock is dismissive. “Oh, you know: Mary. Molly. The rest of that.”

John turns onto his side, propping up his head on one hand. “Tell you what,” he says. “Let’s take a shower. Then I’ll make breakfast while you think, and when you’ve finished thinking, we can eat and then I plan to undress you and start this all over again. Sound like a plan?” 

Sherlock looks at him and has to remind himself consciously that this is actually happening. This is real. “All right,” he says, feeling the slow smile begin to creep across his face again. This is incredible. “Did you say that we were showering together?” 

“If you’re amenable, of course,” John says easily. 

“I think it would be safe to say that I’ll be amenable to anything you propose,” Sherlock informs him, and John grins. 

*** 

Their plates are empty. John outdid himself, making omelettes oozing with sharp cheddar, broccoli, and bacon, sausages on the side, and thick-sliced multigrain toast, washed down with mugs of coffee made in the French press, and with their hands linked across the table in unapologetic sentimentalism, Sherlock feels extremely content. 

“That was delicious,” he says. “Thank you for cooking.” 

John smiles at him, a smile Sherlock has never seen on him before. “I can’t think of a single thing I wouldn’t do for you, you know,” he says, very seriously. “Given that – breakfast was nothing.” 

Sherlock’s throat attempts to close, so he clears it, his fingers tightening in John’s. “You’re too far away.” He thinks that he should feel silly saying it, admitting so easily that he can’t stand not being closer to John than he is at the moment, but John isn’t at all put out by it. 

He gets up, comes around the table, pulls Sherlock’s chair out a little and straddles his lap without hesitation. He bends and puts their mouths together immediately and Sherlock shifts him even closer and kisses back deeply, throwing himself into it. His hands are in Sherlock’s hair, fingers combing through his wet curls as they kiss, and it’s blissful. After a little while, John pulls back and says, “So? What conclusions did you come through while you were thinking? Anything urgent?” 

Sherlock blinks and attempts to process the question. “Actually… yes. I don’t think that Molly told you everything. I think she may know more.” 

“Oh?” John is intrigued. “How so? What makes you think that?” 

“A few things…” Sherlock drags his eyes from John’s mouth to his eyes. “For one thing, the DVDs were both shot in Molly’s flat. I watched them again and I recognise the wallpaper and blinds in the background. If she was that involved with Mary, I feel that she may know more about Mary’s movements leading up to her death. I can’t say what I think she may or may not know, but we know that Mary typically only kept people around if she could use them for something. What use could she have possibly had for Molly?” 

“I wondered the same thing,” John says dryly. He puts his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “I mean, Molly has her uses to us, for crime work, but what could Mary have wanted from her? If it was just, er, the physical thing… there are better choices out there than Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock thinks. “She mentioned my needing a confidante, the night we first met,” he points out. “Perhaps _she_ needed one. Someone to tell her plans to, someone she could trust to keep her secrets.” 

John raises his eyebrows. “So what do we think that Molly may know? And is it important?” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says. “There is still the question of the DVDs, though. Who could have sent them? Surely not Mary herself, after her death. Before finding out about the letter, I never would have thought to suspect Molly. Now, however, it makes rather a lot of sense.” 

John frowns. “That does make sense. Should we just ask her?” 

“We could,” Sherlock says thoughtfully, adjusting his legs to better hold John’s weight. “It makes me wonder why she didn’t just tell you, however. Why would she go on protecting Mary’s secrets, when Mary is dead?” 

John’s eyes widen. The thought occurs to them both at the same time. “No,” John breathes. “She can’t be!” 

Sherlock makes a thoughtful sound. “Which hospital was she taken to after the shot?” he asks. 

John shakes his head. “Shit. There’s no bloody _way_ – but that makes sense now, if she – ”

“If she what?” Sherlock prompts. “What makes sense now?”

“She was taken to Bart’s,” John says, closing his eyes. “I always wondered, when St. Thomas’ was right next door, practically, and at least two others were closer. It was Molly who did the autopsy. She wouldn’t let me see the body, said I’d find it too distressing, and I remember thinking that I should have insisted. Like with you. I just felt numb, and let her push me away.”

“Do you really think she faked her death?” Sherlock asks. “I mean… what about your marriage?” 

John shakes his head. “She knew I didn’t love her anymore. I told her, when we went to get her. And it’s always possible that she found out about the text affair, too. My phone was password-protected, but I’ve lived with you long enough to know that that doesn’t mean anything for some people.” 

Sherlock bites his lip. “Sorry,” he says, but John shakes his head, smiling. 

“It’s fine. I’m used to it by now.” He falls silent, musing to himself, then says, “It does make sense, you know. She chose her own out. She knew that I wasn’t in anymore, so she decided to take herself out before I officially ended things. She did it on her own terms, cut ties completely and tried to end things between you and me.” 

“But Rosie?” Sherlock finds this difficult to believe. “Do you really think she would leave her own child behind?” 

“Oh, quite possibly,” John says, his tone acerbic. “Look at the way she left her without a second thought when she ran off, there. She could have chosen to accept your offer of help, but instead she did it the most selfish way possible. She should be charged with abandonment!” 

“Well, we could make that happen,” Sherlock points out. “If we can find her, that is.” 

“You know who would know, if anyone does,” John says, his brows very high. 

Sherlock nods. “Let’s go and see Molly, then,” he says, and John kisses him. 

“All right. The rest of this will keep for later. Let’s go and find my criminal wife and deal with her once and for all,” John says grimly. 

Sherlock agrees, and they collect themselves. Before they leave, Sherlock goes to the desk and opens the bottom drawer. “Here,” he says, holding the Sig out to John. “Take this. You never know how she might react. Not Molly: Mary.” 

John comes over and takes the gun. “You’re right,” he says. “This is her pattern, isn’t it: running away when things get difficult. I can’t believe I ever thought that I could love her if I tried hard enough.” 

Sherlock smiles at him. “We all make mistakes,” he says diplomatically. “The point is that you see her clearly now.” 

John nods. “Once the illusion is broken, you can’t rebuild it.” He looks at Sherlock. “But with you, there was no illusion in the first place. Just you. And that’s all I ever wanted.” 

*** 

Molly opens her door at John’s thunderous pounding with a look of trepidation on her face. She winces overtly, seeing them both. “Oh God,” she says, her voice trembling. “What is it now?” 

John waves her aside. “We need to talk,” he says his voice hard, and Molly meekly stands back to let them in. “Let’s all sit down, shall we?” He pulls out a chair at the kitchen table, directs Molly to it, then goes around and pulls out two others for himself and Sherlock. 

Sherlock finds himself very much liking John’s authoritativeness and makes a mental note to mention this later. But for now, things are rather serious. “You haven’t told us everything you know, Molly,” he says, fixing his sternest gaze on her. 

Molly hasn’t yet sat down, but her hands are resting on the back of her chair. “Like what?” she asks, sounding as nervous as a cornered rabbit. 

“You tell us,” John retorts. “Let’s not play games here. You know very well that you’re in the wrong on multiple counts. You owe us both the truth, at the very least!” 

Molly opens her mouth as though to respond defensively, so Sherlock cuts her off. “Sit,” he orders, and this time she does it. He nods toward the far wall of the sitting room, plainly visible from where they are. “You see the wallpaper, John? And the blinds?”

John nods. “Yes,” he says grimly, and points a finger in Molly’s face. “You shot those DVDs of Mary’s,” he states. “Don’t deny it – you know, it frankly amazes me that you would even try to get away with this. You purportedly love this man, yet underestimate him all the time, refuse to believe him when he’s telling the truth, and seem to think that he owes you his affections in spite of all that. The only question I have is this: why are you still protecting Mary when she’s dead, hmm? You kept saying how sorry you were about that letter you forged, but you still lied to me.” 

“I didn’t lie,” Molly says quickly, her eyes darting back and forth between them. “I just – ”

“A lie of omission is still a lie,” Sherlock informs her, and Molly shuts her mouth, swallowing. “Mary is alive: we know this. What else have you been hiding from us, Molly? Now is the time to come clean.” 

“And then we’ll want a location on Mary,” John informs her pleasantly. “But for now: what else should we know here?” 

Molly seems to crumple a little. She looks down at her hands on the table. “I did mean it when I said I was sorry,” she says. “I don’t think you should blame me quite as harshly. I loved Mary too, and she’s abandoned me without so much as the decency to tell me she was never going to come back, either.” 

John pauses. “I suppose that’s true,” he says. “Nevertheless: what else have you been keeping from us?” 

Molly sighs. “I promised Mary I would never tell a soul this,” she begins. “But given that I don’t think she’s ever planning on coming back… John, perhaps you should know that you’re not Rosie’s father. David is.” 

Sherlock feels his eyebrows fly upward and looks at John in shock, but John actually looks quite composed. “And she just… told you this,” he says, his eyes fixed on Molly. 

Molly nods. “She’d had tests done and just needed someone to tell, I think. She was never planning on telling you. But now, if you’re looking at custody options and that, I think that David should be informed. I’m still very willing to have her sometimes, and we could make that a permanent arrangement as if you like. If you want to fight it out with David, go ahead, but I want you to know that I love Rosie and I don’t want to see her getting hurt because you’ve found this out.” 

She musters some defiance for this, and John nods. “No, of course,” he says. “We’ll have to do what’s best for Rosie. It’s good to know the truth, though.” He looks at Sherlock. “Thoughts?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Whatever you decide you want is fine with me. If you want to have her with us full-time, we’ll have to make arrangements, obviously, but she’s your – responsibility, I suppose we should say. And obviously David will have to have a say in the entire matter. When we find Mary, she should be charged for child abandonment. It’s a crime when the child is under the age of two.” He transfers his gaze to Molly. “What makes you think that she’s never coming back?” 

Molly shrugs, her thin shoulder defensive. “She lied about everything else, or just never told me in the first place. I don’t know what her story is, but when she ran off just recently, she never even told me she was going away. I don’t have a location for you. She didn’t tell me that. Even me. I’m the one who helped her fake her death, and the person she was probably the most intimate with in the past year or two, and all I’ve got is a phone number. I don’t even know whether or not it’s real.” 

“We’ll have the number all the same,” Sherlock says, holding out his hand for it. 

Molly gets up and goes to open a drawer beneath the worktop. She removes several items, then brings over a scrap of paper with what Sherlock recognises as Mary’s writing on it. The number is for France, close to Paris, he thinks. He gives it to John. 

“Anything else?” he asks of Molly. 

She shakes her head. “I’ve told you everything I know.” She still sounds defensive, and raises her eyes to John’s. “Who was she? I mean – I don’t know anything at all, she never said – ”

“And you probably never asked, not that she’d have told you the truth if you had,” John says dryly. “She was an assassin, Molly. A murderer for hire. And a compulsive liar. I don’t even think she was capable of telling the truth.”

Molly covers her mouth. “An assassin?” she repeats. 

“Yes, and one who tried to kill your precious Sherlock, at that,” John retorts. 

Molly’s jaw drops. “What?!” 

John glances at Sherlock. “She didn’t mention that, huh? Yes: the six months leading up to Christmas when you were probably wondering why Sherlock never came to your lab? He was recovering from my wife having shot him in the heart. While you were doing God knows what with Mary, that’s what we were going through: Mary very nearly killed him that day.” 

Molly begins to shake. “I didn’t know,” she whispers, visibly shocked. 

Sherlock feels it in himself to pity her. “She was a masterful manipulator,” he says gently. “None of us saw her as she truly is at first.” 

She’s crying. “Are you all right now?” she asks him, tears streaking down her cheeks. 

“Perfectly fine now,” Sherlock assures her. “John was there to look after me.” 

Molly hugs her arms tightly around herself. “God, I was such a fool,” she says, just audibly. “Such an idiot. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She risks a look at Sherlock. “And – you and John, are you – ?” 

She doesn’t finish, but Sherlock thinks he knows what she’s asking. “Yes,” he says, reaching for John’s hand. John takes it and smiles at him, intertwining their fingers. “It took us a long time and your letter didn’t help. But now we’re finally – this.” 

Molly nods, and Sherlock sees a grudging acceptance there. “Good,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “I’m glad. For both of you.” 

Sherlock gets to his feet, not releasing John’s hand. “We’re still friends, Molly,” he tells her. “At least, if you want to be. I would never deny you that.” 

Molly looks up at him, her eyes red-rimmed. “I don’t deserve to be forgiven,” she says quietly. “I know that.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he says quietly. “Let’s leave it at that. You’ve done what you can to atone.” 

John smiles at her, a real smile. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for Rosie. We’ll figure things out there. And thank you for telling us the rest of it, even if you should have said it sooner. We’re going to find Mary and bring her back here to stand trial. Maybe you’ll have an opportunity to say whatever you need to say to her then.” 

Molly nods, and Sherlock tugs John by the hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go and get her. Again.” 

*** 

Once they involve Mycroft, it’s easy enough to track Mary down. They could have found her without his help, but, as Sherlock pointed out to John, being included seemed to cheer him up a little. 

“Morstan? Still alive?” he’d said, frowning at them over his interlocked fingers. “How can that be?” 

John had explained, then given him the phone number. “We could probably find her ourselves even without a tracking device, but we thought, with all your resources…” 

“Quite right,” Mycroft had said briskly, visibly coming to life. “Now then: this number puts her somewhere in the northeast quadrant of Paris, probably near the outskirts. Let’s see when it was last used.” 

Sherlock had exchanged a privately amused look with John as they waited politely to be given Mary’s precise geographic coordinates, and then Mycroft went a step further and suggested that he have Interpol pick her up and bring her back. 

“Less risk to you both that way,” he’d said. “You can still confront her on the tarmac, if you like. Now, for the court case: child abandonment, you said? Why don’t we bump that up to included attempted murder? I still have the bullet, for the record.” 

“Of course you do,” Sherlock said, fighting the unusual urge to smile at his brother. 

Mycroft regarded it with suspicion, but opened a drawer of his desk with a key and drew out the evidence jar containing a partially smashed bullet. “There was only the one,” he said. “Luckily.” 

“One nearly did the job as it is,” John said grimly, taking the jar and examining the bullet. He gave it back to Mycroft. “Let’s definitely include attempted murder in the charges.” 

Mycroft favoured them both with one of his grimace-like smiles. “Consider it done. I’ll let you know when we’ve got her.” 

Next, they take Rosie and go to see David. He nearly jumps out of his skin at seeing Sherlock on his doorstep, but John hastily explains that there’s nothing to worry about, and finally David cautiously invites them in for a cup of tea. Seated around his rather small kitchen table, John breaks the news to him as gently as possible that he is, in fact, a father. Sherlock watches the small man’s face and feels another unusual surge of empathy, watching the range of motions cross his face. 

“Oh my God,” David says, stunned. He looks over at Rosie, asleep in her carrier. “Mary was sure? She did the tests?” 

John nods. “That’s what she told our friend, at any rate. I don’t know how she would have had a DNA sample of yours handy, but it could be that she had something of mine and just saw that it wasn’t a match. I know now that she cheated on me with multiple people during our engagement and marriage, so I don’t know one hundred percent that it’s you, but if she was sure, then I think you probably are.” 

David looks down into his cup. “It feels true,” he says. He risks a squinted look at Sherlock. “I know that’s not very logical, but it feels true on a gut level.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “There could be something to that. Now the question before us is this: what shall we do with this information? John obviously has a prior emotional attachment to the child, and from a legal standpoint he has a prior claim. However, considering the abandonment by the mother and the fact that the mother will soon be imprisoned for a very long time, there’s certainly an argument for the child to have at least one biological parent in her life. As far as we’re concerned, we’ve discussed it at length and are prepared to be open-minded about this. You know the work we do: an infant doesn’t precisely fit in with our lifestyle, but we’ll make it work if we need to. John is unsure as to whether or not he would be able to play the child’s father when her real father is also on the scene. In addition, Rosie also has godparents who would be very sad to lose contact with her, so there are options before us. The question is really what you would most like.”

David looks back and forth between them, then looks over at Rosie again, a look of unmistakable longing on his face. “I’ve always wanted to be a dad,” he says, a bit wistfully. “Specifically to Mary’s children, too. I feel a bit like I’ve just won the pools, if you want to know.”

John clears his throat. “I’m glad to hear you say that,” he says, his voice a bit gruff. “I’m willing to let you have her if that’s how you feel, but how are you set up for having a baby around? They’re incredibly demanding and time-consuming. Do you have a partner of some sort? What do you do for work?” 

“I’m single, but I’ve done child care work before,” David tells him. “I think I have a pretty good idea of what it will take. Work-wise, I’m a website designer, so I work from home and have a very flexible schedule. And if her godparents want to still have her at regular intervals, that’s fine with me. You too, John. If the two of you want to have her sometimes, or visit, that would be fine.” 

John sits back and looks at Sherlock. Sherlock gauges his face, then says, “We’ll discuss that. It might be nice to see her, every once in awhile. For now, I think that it would be for the best to make a clean break, both for Rosie’s sake and for John’s. She’ll need time to adjust to her new environment, and to you.”

Rosie chooses that moment to wake and begins to fuss. John reaches for her and lifts her out of the carrier and bounces her on his knee a little, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and making soothing sounds. Sherlock watches him and feels his heart ache with affection and sorrow both. They talked about this for hours and John is very sure that if David wants her, then he has the right to take her, and that it would be the best thing for Rosie, anyway. Nevertheless, it’s a loss for him, especially when compounded with his guilt over how little time he’s already spent with the child. 

When Rosie has settled down, John gets up and passes her to David. “Here,” he says. “That’s it – just like that.” 

David sets the child in his lap and looks at her, his face filled with affection. “Hello, you,” he says, and Sherlock notes that he is a very nice man indeed, despite his own first impressions of him. If he fell for Mary’s machinations, too, perhaps that merely speaks to the size of his heart rather than that of his intellect. He looks up at them both. “So – legally speaking, what needs to happen?”

John repeats everything Mycroft told them and David listens intently, nodding along. John finishes, then asks slowly, “Would you like to keep her as of now, or is that a bit too – ”

“No, that would be great!” David says. He looks down into the face of his child and says, “We’ve got so much lost time to make up for, haven’t we, my sweet?” 

Rosie gives him a partially-toothed smile back. John gets up and leans over to drop a kiss onto her head. “Goodbye for now,” he says. “We’ll have her things brought over before the end of the day and we’ll be in touch about custody arrangements and all of that. You’ll have support, including us if you want us. You don’t ever have to feel like you’re alone in this.” 

Sherlock gets to his feet and passes David a pre-loaded credit card. “We’ll be extorting Mary for child support, but meanwhile this is for her expenses, courtesy of the British government. If you need more, just say the word.”

“And you’ll have questions about Rosie, naturally,” John says. “I’ve started on a file of things you should know about her daily routines and that, so I’ll make sure you get that. But anything else, too – please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m just a phone call away, or I can come over or whatever it takes.” 

David nods, then opens his mouth and hesitates. “But – are you all right with this?” he asks awkwardly. “I mean – to just leave a child you thought was yours…”

John exhales deeply, and Sherlock watches him with care. “Honestly,” John says, “I love Rosie. I do. But I haven’t been there for her anywhere near what I should have been, and the price is that I don’t even know her as well as I ought to. Circumstances leading up to Mary’s death made things very difficult, and then with the work we do, as Sherlock said, we’d have been willing to make the necessary arrangements, but if her own father wants her, then far be it for me to stand in the way of that. I think she’ll be better off with you.” 

David nods again. “Yeah. I get that. I agree, for what it’s worth. But I’ll definitely be in touch – as you said, I’ll have dozens of questions. And you may still want to see her. I have no problem with that. We could work out visits, or… we could just leave it very informal and you could just see her when you like.”

John nods and clears his throat. “That’s very gracious of you,” he says. “I appreciate that.” 

“Take a village to raise a child, isn’t that what they say?” David looks down at the child on his lap. “I can’t wait to get to know her. I can’t thank you enough for this.” 

The goodbyes are said and Sherlock gently leads John from the flat, taking his hand once the door is closed behind them. “Are you all right?” he asks carefully as they walk toward the Underground stop. 

John squeezes his hand. “Yeah,” he says, in a tone that sounds slightly surprised. “I am, actually. I thought that would be harder. I guess that just says how little I even knew her, in the end.” They walk a little more, then he adds, “Maybe that’s just how I feel right now and in a bit, I’ll feel just terrible, but I know that’s not the end. I could see her again if I wanted to.”

“True.”

John squeezes his hand again, then says, “And besides which, all I really want right now is you. Now that we finally have this, Sherlock – these last four days have been absolutely incredible for me. Maybe it’s selfish, but this is really all I want.”

Sherlock steals a look at him. “Then I’m just as selfish,” he admits, his voice low. 

John looks around, then pulls him off the crowded pavement and into a narrow space between two buildings, and kisses him for a long, very sweet moment, regardless of the passers-by. Sherlock finds he doesn’t care even slightly what they might think: the only person whose opinion matters to him now is John’s. When the kiss ebbs off, Sherlock puts both hands on John’s face to draw his mouth back and John leans into him and kisses him with even more hunger, as though Sherlock’s invitation has released something in him. They’re both trying so hard, Sherlock thinks, his eyes closed as he revels in the kiss: both of them so certain that he had damaged this fragile, so-long-unspoken thing between them well beyond the point of salvation. But now they have it, and the having of it is earth-shattering. 

John pulls back again, his eyes searching Sherlock’s. “I love you,” he says, his voice low. “Let’s go home. I want to take every piece of clothing off you and then – explore some more.” 

There is still quite a bit of uncharted territory, despite their enthusiastic efforts thus far. Sherlock swallows, and smiles. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s – do exactly that.” 

John takes his hand again. “Come on.” 

*** 

Mrs Hudson is out and the flat doors are all locked for once. They folded all of the blankets and removed them from the bed, except for the pillows. Sherlock is currently hugging one of these to his face as instructed, waiting with great anticipation for John to emerge from the bathroom and begin whatever he has in mind. 

He's lying facedown on the centre of the mattress, naked as the day he was born. They got home, half-pushed, half-pulled each other up the stairs after discerning Mrs Hudson’s absence, then John had brought him to the bedroom and done exactly as he’d promised: removed all of Sherlock’s clothes one piece at a time, his mouth following his hands, trailing kisses down Sherlock’s arms and fingers and chest and stomach, then his legs and knees, coming back up the insides of his thighs, torturously avoiding the erection already standing out from Sherlock’s body to kiss his way back up to his mouth. John’s hand came around him at last to give a gentle squeeze, and then directed him to the bed to start removing the linens. 

The bathroom door opens at last and Sherlock lets himself look. John is naked now, too, his erection at eighty percent or so, and seeing it makes Sherlock’s mouth water. They’ve touched each other with their hands and mouths repeatedly, but so far it hasn’t progressed much beyond that – it hasn’t needed to; everything they’ve done so far has been both exciting as well as extremely satisfying, and novel enough to keep them both more than sufficiently entertained. Now, however, Sherlock senses that John intends to explore further, and the thought is breathtaking. 

“How are we doing?” John asks, climbing onto the bed and lying down beside Sherlock, an arm draping itself across his back. 

“Impatient,” Sherlock admits. “I’m very ready for whatever you have in mind.” 

John smiles, another of those beautiful smiles Sherlock never saw on his face before this started. He leans in and kisses Sherlock on the lips. “I love you,” he says. “So much, Sherlock. Before we start this, I just want to make sure it’s all right. We’ve not been the best with communication and I just want to ascertain that I’m not – that this isn’t out of line in terms of what you’re expecting or hoping for, in terms of – well, roles and that. I just mean that if we do this today, it doesn’t mean that we can’t do it another way another day. Am I making sense at all?” 

Sherlock blinks at him and adjusts his face on the pillow. “You’re saying that, today at least, your plan is to… be inside me.” 

John looks pleased that he got it. “Yes! And you did say you wanted that, but I just – wanted to make sure, first.”

Sherlock swallows. “I’m very sure. I want this. Want you.”

John leans over and touches his lips to Sherlock’s briefly. “Last night, when I put my fingers in you… you liked that, didn’t you?” 

Sherlock bites his lip and nods, slightly embarrassing as it is to admit. He’s made a silent vow to only ever be honest with John from here on in. “I liked it a lot,” he makes himself confess, his voice low. 

John lets his hand travel downward to squeeze at Sherlock’s right cheek. “I loved your reaction to it,” he says, smiling. “This might be a bit of a leap, from fingers to – full-on penetration, but if you’re ready, I know I am.” 

“I’m ready,” Sherlock tells him. “I’ve been dreaming of this day since I went away.” 

John blinks, then swiftly leans in and kisses him again, much harder this time, rolling Sherlock back onto his side, then onto his back, climbing onto him and pulling him close, his arms between Sherlock’s back and the mattress, their erections knocking and sliding together. Their bodies are moving naturally together in one rhythm and Sherlock would almost be content to just do this, but with this new goal set, he wants very badly to try what John has proposed. He’s still on his back when John reaches for the lubricant and gets it onto his fingers. He reaches for Sherlock’s flushed and aching penis first and grasps it, making Sherlock gasp into his mouth as John rubs and squeezes and strokes, feeling himself harden impossibly further. Then John shifts down, kissing and biting at his chest and nipples and belly, Sherlock’s fingers in his hair, and puts his mouth on Sherlock’s penis in lieu of his hand, which is now caressing his testicles and rubbing at the sensitive place just behind. It feels so good that he’s already swimming in pleasure, and John hasn’t even touched his anus yet. 

The mere memory of what that felt like, last night when John tried it on a seemingly sudden whim, has kept him on the edge of blushing all day, so now when John’s fingers probe back, slipping in between his cheeks and pressing at his entrance, Sherlock shivers and hears the ghost of a moan drift out from between his teeth. John lifts his mouth from where it was sucking gently at one of Sherlock’s testicles to ask, “All right?” 

“Very all right,” Sherlock gets out, his eyes squeezed shut. 

John makes a satisfied sound and lifts Sherlock’s left leg to duck under it, simultaneously turning Sherlock onto his front. The ministrations of his tongue continue uninterrupted, sliding up and stopping only at the very core of Sherlock’s body, or so it feels. He feels himself stiffen in something akin to shock, his legs trembling, as John presses his tongue directly against his hole, licking it without a single shred of hesitation or disgust. Sherlock’s penis is attempting to bore a hole in the mattress beneath him and he becomes aware that he’s trembling from head to toe. “Still okay?” John asks, punctuating the question with another swipe of his tongue. 

Sherlock makes fully unintelligible sound, which makes John chuckle, then tries again, finally stuttering out a “Yes!” somewhere between the other sounds, and John spares him and keeps licking. After a little, he shifts his mouth to the left to bite gently at the firm curve of Sherlock’s cheek while his fingers, freshly-lubricated, slide into him. He starts with two right away, but they fit easily, the tissues stretching but not hurting. There’s a bit of burn when he adds a third finger, but Sherlock closes his eyes and rides it out, breathing audibly and waiting for the pleasure to edge out the pain. 

He’s awash in it when John makes a questioning sound. “Yes – I’m – you can – ”

He cannot speak but John understands anyway. “Like this?” he asks, his voice rough with a mixture of emotion and desire. “On your front?” 

“Any way you want me,” Sherlock pants, which seems to please John. 

“Get up on your knees, just a little,” he says. “Keep your head down – yeah, like that. Good. You’re so incredible, Sherlock – so sexy like this, I can’t even – ” He stops, moaning a little as he rubs himself between Sherlock’s cheeks. 

Sherlock can barely speak, he’s so turned on. “Are you – are you going to – ” he stutters, and John understands again. 

“Yes,” he vows, his voice low. “Now.” With that, he pulls up from a long slide that leaves the head of his penis positioned exactly where it needs to be, then pushes forward in one long, gentle, firm push, sinking himself all the way into Sherlock’s body, and their moan is long and joint. John’s knees are between Sherlock’s, his arms supporting his weight, the warmth of his body soaking into Sherlock’s back and he presses a kiss to Sherlock’s spine as he waits, allowing Sherlock’s body to adjust to the stretch. 

Sherlock feels, more than anything else, complete for the first time in his life. He thinks again that symbiosis is more than mere compatibility: this is completion in a way he could not have comprehended before John came into his life. He is trembling, his muscles pulling around John’s girth, but he relishes every part of the pain, too. He can feel his erection, unflagged and dripping with desire, and even as he thinks of it, John’s hand reaches for it and strokes, John’s voice humming its approval even over his ragged breath. He’s waiting, Sherlock realises, needing a signal that it’s all right. “You can – move if you want,” Sherlock gets out, panting, and John moans at this, too. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Very – please!” Sherlock closes his eyes and exhales audibly as John pulls out a little, then sinks into him again, then does it again, again, going a little further each other. 

“How – how is it?” he asks, his voice trembling and so full of arousal that Sherlock feels it could set his very skin on fire. 

“It’s – good,” Sherlock says, panting, then realises he needs to say more. “It’s – everything I’ve ever wanted, John – ”

John moans and hugs Sherlock to himself, his hands caressing every part of Sherlock’s chest and torso they can reach. “Me too, I – always wanted this – wanted you – ”

Sherlock exhales hard, needing more, wanting to feel John within him as much as possible, as deeply as possible. “John…”

“Yes – ” John understands, again. He shifts his hands back to Sherlock’s hips and starts moving in a steady rhythm, pushing as deeply into Sherlock as he can go, pulling back and then thrusting in hard again. The slight burn of the muscle stretch has faded and now where there was pain, pleasure is blooming in a steady crescendo. John shifts and the pleasure turns golden, spreading through Sherlock’s frame in heady waves, but it’s still not quite – 

He’s breathless, panting, relishing every one of John’s thrusts pounding into him and wanting more still. His penis is dripping onto the sheets, needing as fiercely as the rest of him, but – “More, John – harder, please – ”

John makes a ragged, breathless sound of acquiescence and goes wild, plunging into Sherlock so that their bodies are slamming together. He bends forward, hearing Sherlock’s unspoken need, and reaches beneath them to grab at his stiff, heavy erection, and jerks his fist perhaps five or six times along its length as Sherlock gasps for breath and shudders as pleasure gathers in John’s fist and then bursts out of him like lightning, shooting all over the sheets and making his arse clench and squeeze around John’s penis in spasms he has no control over, his release spurting everywhere, catching him in the chest and neck and chin but it doesn’t matter – all that matters is the intensity of the orgasm rocketing through his being. He’s still in the grips of it when John curses and slams into him twice more and then floods Sherlock’s body with hot bursts as he comes, Sherlock’s arse still convulsing around him. He thrusts into it several more times, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s hips hard enough to leave marks. 

And then it’s done and Sherlock finds himself facedown in the pillow, drooling copiously into it, his legs giving out weakly and John slumped onto him, still buried in him, his mouth’s hot breath leaving dampness on Sherlock’s neck. Both their backs are heaving, but John’s arms tighten around Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his words slurring. “You’re absolutely phenomenal, Sherlock.” 

The words go directly to Sherlock’s heart and pierce it. He turns, gently dislodging John and feeling a rush of warmth come sliding out of him and onto his thighs, and pulls John into his arms and legs both, holding him as close as he possibly can. “I love you,” he says, his heart still pounding, and John’s arms hold him just as tightly as he says it back. 

“Forever, Sherlock,” he adds, his voice as tight as his arms. “I will never doubt us or you again. I swear it. I love you.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes and thinks he could genuinely die of happiness now. He holds John and strokes his hair and says every impossibly sentimental thing that comes into his head and John absorbs it all and gives it back in kind, and it’s the best thing in the world, far better than Sherlock even dreamed could be possible. 

*** 

“Right, is everyone set?” John asks. 

Sherlock looks around at the assembled group. It’s been precisely one week since Mycroft was put on the task of finding Mary. Interpol caught her without difficulty, then spent three days processing her before they would agree to release her into English custody. Mycroft duly twisted arms and recalled favours until they agreed, and now, as promised, she is being delivered first into an informal trial before the people she betrayed. Sherlock counts them again: John, of course, Molly, David, Rosie, and himself. They invited Janine, too, but ever since the night that Mary attacked Janine along with the security guard, Janine has washed her hands of Mary and wanted no part of this. Mycroft is also there, hovering grimly in the background. 

“She’s coming now,” Mycroft says, surveying the sky, and Sherlock sees it: the hazy black dot of the approaching helicopter. 

John moves closer to him and takes his hand, threading their fingers together, and Sherlock looks at him and smiles. John smiles back, and they hold each other’s gaze for a moment, just confirming that everyone is completely perfect in their own universe of two. Molly and David are standing together, each with a hand on Rosie’s buggy. They only just met the other day, but seem to have taken an instant liking to one another, he and John noted. That would be nice – for Molly and for Rosie, Sherlock thinks. For all that she’d done wrong, Molly could do with some happiness, and with a nice, normal sort of man like David. Rosie could use the stability, of which there has been very little in her short life thus far. 

“You’re doing the talking then, John?” Molly asks, confirming as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear that the cool breeze has displaced. 

John nods. “I’ll start, at least. I imagine we each have things we’d like to say to her.” 

They watch the helicopter come to a jerky landing, and then Mary is bundled out, surrounded by no fewer than twelve agents. Sherlock is pleased to note that Mary has been cuffed at the hands and feet and is sporting an orange jumpsuit. Orange is not her colour, and this pleases him still further. Mary’s eyes fall on the small group waiting for her and she says something to the agent to her right. He grunts and jerks her forward, not stopping until Mary is three metres from them. She squints into the light. “What’s this, then?” she asks, her voice thick with suspicion. “A welcome party?” She makes no reference to the fact that she is supposed to be dead. 

John lets go of Sherlock’s hand and walks over to her, holding up a sheaf of papers. “Mary Morstan, or whatever your real name is, it’s my great pleasure to tell you that you are under arrest for child abandonment and attempted murder,” he says, with enough venom in his tone to make David shift his weight uncomfortably. 

Mary neither looks at nor takes the papers. “What are you doing here, John?” she asks, with annoyance. “What is this? It’s hardly your job to read me my charges.” 

“No, but it was given to me and I accepted with enthusiasm,” John tells her tersely. “This was arranged so that you could look at the five of us in the eye and tell us why you decided to betray us.” 

Mary looks at the agent on her left. “I don’t have to put up with this,” she says calmly. “I refuse to do this. Escort me inside please. I know my rights.” 

No one moves. John shakes his head. “You’re not going anywhere.” He turns and walks back to Sherlock and reaches for his hand again. “Let’s start at the beginning: you lied to me about absolutely everything: your name, your profession, your background. You cheated on me with both David and Molly and who even knows how many others. You lied by omission in not telling me that Rosie wasn’t mine, or that you attempted to murder Sherlock. You then faked your death and tried to use it to destroy our relationship. And you abandoned your one-year-old daughter.” He looks at Sherlock. “Your turn.” 

Sherlock fixes his gaze on Mary. “I gave you a chance,” he says, meaning it. “I gave you a chance to be a good partner to John. You lied to him, belittled him, and cheated on him. You tried to kill me. Even after I offered you my help, you shot me in the heart. I dealt with Magnussen for you – for John’s sake, but you certainly received the benefit from it – and yet you did the same thing the next time you got into trouble, drugged me and ran off, leaving John and Rosie behind the minute things looked ugly.” 

Molly goes next, her voice low but clear. “You lied to me, too. You used me. You used me for your own amusement but never once told me a single part of the truth. You told me that your plan was meant to reunite you and John, and to bring Sherlock and I together. You never cared about the second part at all, and you certainly never told me that you shot him in the heart. You used me to keep your secrets and help fake your death and babysit your daughter, a daughter you completely abandoned! You’re a monster. I didn’t see it at first, but I want you to know that I see you clearly now, and you disgust me.” 

Sherlock looks closely, and Mary almost flinches, but not quite. “David?” he prompts quietly. 

David clears his throat and shakes his head. “Wow. Jesus, Mary. The things I didn’t know about you. I guess my personal complaint seems pretty small compared to attempted murder and all that, but how could you have not told me that I had a child? I always got that our relationship meant more to me than it did to you, but a _child_ , Mary? Our daughter?” He shakes his head. “She’s mine now. You’ll have no further part in screwing up her life. With help, of course,” he says, nodding at Molly. “We’ll do right by her. But God, am I glad I got out when I did! I’d almost feel badly for you, but you clearly deserve whatever sentence you get.” 

John looks at David to see if he’s finished, then looks back at Mary, his grey-blue eyes unusually sober. “There are some things I want you to know,” he says. “You thought you were terribly clever, but we’ve all seen through you now. I guess you can laugh at the notion of how long it took us to get here, but we’re all there now. No one here loves you anymore. Despite your best efforts, not even Molly – loyal, loving Molly Hooper – was willing to keep lying for you. Despite your best efforts, you completely failed to destroy mine and Sherlock’s friendship. We’re lovers now, as we always should have been. I made a huge mistake in marrying you, but that damage won’t last. You failed to hurt any of us in any lasting way. We’ll forget you soon enough.” 

Mary finally reacts, a flash of anger in her eyes. “No, you won’t!” 

“Actually, we will,” Molly says, very calmly. She turns to David. “Let’s take Rosie to the zoo this afternoon. She would love that.” 

“Yeah, all right,” David says, looking pleased. 

John watches Mary with loathing on his face. “Do you have anything to say to any of us?” he asks. “It won’t change your sentencing, but for your own, personal redemption, Mary. Anything?” 

Mary looks at their joint hands, then spits in their direction. It falls short, landing two feet away. 

Sherlock looks down at it. “Unimpressive,” he remarks. He turns to John and lowers his voice suggestively. “I can think of a more fun way to spend the afternoon than at the zoo…”

John laughs, the heaviness of the confrontation disappearing. He turns to face Sherlock and leans up to kiss him for a long moment. “I like the way you think,” he says. He turns in toward Sherlock, both of them turning their backs on Mary and the agents guarding her, their arms around each other’s waists. “Let’s do that. Let’s go home.”

Sherlock catches Mycroft’s eye as they pass him. “She’s all yours, brother mine,” he says. 

“Right. See you in court, then,” Mycroft says dryly. 

“I doubt we’ll come, but you’ll keep us posted, I’m sure,” John says airily, and Mycroft agrees. 

They get into a waiting town car and John sits very close to him, all four of their hands linked in their laps. “Well,” Sherlock says, with immense satisfaction in his voice. “That’s that done.” 

“Quite,” John says, his voice reflecting the same satisfaction. Neither of them looks into the mirror to see Mary being led away. 

Ahead of them, the sun breaks through the clouds and bathes London in warmth. Sherlock looks at John and sees that he sees it, too, and they both smile. This time, the unspoken thing doesn’t need saying at all. They understand one another perfectly now. Sherlock settles himself against John, content to let the drive take as long as it likes. There’s no hurry now. From here on in, they’ll have each other. All the doubt is gone, all the misunderstandings cleared away. From now on, there will only be sunlight. 

*


End file.
